Kindred Spirits
by Polgana
Summary: Gary runs into a little trouble in China Town. Fourth in series.


Title : Kindred Spirits  
Author: Polgana  
Rating: R for violence  
Summary: Gary crosses a different kind of mob, and finds himself with an unusual set of guardians.  
Category: Action/adventure. Crossover with Kung Fu, The Legend Continues, and Pure Country, with some ER thrown in for spice.  
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. I just borrow them to play with once in a while.  
Author's note: I felt like Gary needed to get a few dozen things off his chest. And who better to confide in than a priest. But, it had to be a certain kind of priest ! Thus are stories born.  
E-mail: Please send feedback to: Polgana54@ cs.com  
  
  
Kindred Spirits  
By Polgana   
  
Tommy Han crept stealthily among the empty crates and boxes, his little sister in tow. He had finally figured a way to get her out of his hair and, hopefully, keep her out of trouble. That one, perfect. He led little Teresa to a large crate against the north wall. The open side faced the wall, and it was big enough that she wouldn't get scared of being closed in. Tommy really did love his little sister. It was just embarrassing to always have her tagging along when he had 'guy stuff' to do.  
  
"You stay right here," he told her, laying out her dolls and the lunch sack. "I'll come back when everyone else has given up looking." He grinned at her, making it a game. "This'll be the best hide and seek ever!" he assured her. "Just remember: no noise. And don't come out for anyone but me. Okay?"  
  
"'Kay, Tommy," six year old Teresa agreed. She slipped into her new 'playhouse' and began arranging her dolls. Satisfied she would do as he was told, Tommy left her to go find his friends.   
  
*****************************  
  
Frantically, Gary dodged in and out of the pedestrians crowding the side walks, tossing hurried apologies over his shoulder, but never slowing his pace. It was going to be close. Too close! He had only minutes left to find the right warehouse. If only traffic had not been so heavy, or the El train a little earlier, or he was not still so weak from the Chicken Pox he caught last week . . . Or nothing. It was his responsibility to get there in time. And where were the police? He had called in his tip almost thirty minutes ago!  
  
Pausing for breath, he quickly scanned the article again. 'Child Slain In Deadly Crossfire' the headline read. 'Six year old Teresa Han was killed this morning, along with crime lord Benny Tan and three of his henchmen, while playing in an abandoned warehouse. Two rival gangs, engaged in an apparent territorial dispute, opened fire on each other. Little Teresa's body was found huddled in a packing crate against the north wall when her grief-stricken brother reported that he had left her there to play while he had gone to meet some friends.'  
  
It finally gave the address about halfway through the article. Looking around, Gary spotted what he was looking for. That was it, just across the street. As he ran headlong between oncoming cars, ignoring the angry honks and curses, he spotted four well dressed Orientals entering through the front door. Not yet, he pleaded. Please God, not yet!  
  
Not wanting to draw attention to himself and the child, Gary ducked around to find the loading dock. To his dismay, five other men were mounting the steps at the back. He ducked back out of sight. Christ! Now what? Hugging the wall, he peeked carefully around the corner. They had disappeared inside. This was his chance. Gary took a running jump and landed on the loading dock with a minimum of noise. Glancing around quickly to make sure he was still unobserved, he then crept his way to the north wall. In the distance, he could hear heated voices. He didn't have the first clue as to what they were saying. His Chinese was limited to the menu of his favorite restaurant. And he doubted these guys were here for take-out.  
  
Then he heard it. A low voice crooning what sounded like a lullaby. Gary eased up, not wanting to frighten the child. He was already frightened enough for both of them.  
  
"Teresa?" he whispered. The crooning stopped. "Teresa, your brother sent me," he continued, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. Don't panic the child. "Tommy. Your brother Tommy wants me to take you home."  
  
"Tommy said stay here," she countered. "Don't come out for anyone else." Her voice trembled. Damn! Please don't panic!  
  
"I know, honey," Gary told her in his gentlest tone. "But, he had to go someplace. A-and he got worried about . . . about you being here alone too long." The other voices were getting louder, angrier . . . And closer! "Teresa, please! We have to get out of here, sweetheart." He was openly pleading now. "The . . . there are bad people here. Tommy doesn't want you getting caught by the bad people, so he sent me to find you." Inspiration hit him as he remembered something from the article. "He said you were playing the best game of hide and seek ever," he reminded her. "But. it's over now. You've won. Please, Teresa. Let me . . ."  
  
Shots rang out. Without another thought, Gary dove into the crate with the child, wrapping his body around her struggling form. He tried to keep the fear out of his voice as he whispered reassurances. She grew suddenly quiet as the gunshots grew louder. Gary kept up his soothing tone even when a lance of pain seared across his back. 'Please, God,' he thought, 'just let me get her out in one piece!'  
  
Desperately, he looked around, praying to find a way out. There! Was that daylight? Ignoring the pain of the bullet burn across his lower back, Gary crawled towards where the light made a pattern on the floor, little Teresa still hugged close to his chest.   
  
What he found was a vent covering a small opening that lead directly outside. Even with the covering removed, he had no chance of squeezing through. But, Teresa would fit easily. He set the little girl aside, warning her once more to be silent. Fortunately, the on going gunfight covered most of the noise he made. It seemed like an eternity, but actually only took him a few seconds to kick the grill out.   
  
"Teresa," he whispered, "I want you to go find your folks. Those ladies down the street there, do you know 'em?" The child peeked outside, then nodded eagerly. "Good! Go tell one of them to take you home. Okay? Just tell 'em you wanna go home. Now, run!" He gave her a gentle shove to hurry her on her way. The child wriggled through with no problems, and was soon calling something in Chinese to the group of women at the corner. Gary saw one of them scoop her up and run . . . just before rough hands grabbed him by the hair and hauled him back from the small opening.  
  
Something smashed across his cheek. Another blow landed directly on his already bleeding back. Dazed, he was flung to his hands and knees in the middle of the debris cluttered room. He was kneeling in something wet . . . Horrified, he became aware that he had been flung into a pool of fresh blood. Less than two feet from his hands lay the body of a man with half his face blown away.   
  
"Who are you?" a cold, slightly accented voice ask. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"No--nobody," Gary stammered, slowly sitting back on his heels, fighting down a wave of nausea. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the grisly sight of the dead man. "I . . . I was just . . . looking for . . . for my cat. Have you seen him? An orange tabby about so b . . ."  
  
Another back handed blow to the other cheek. Gary definitely tasted blood that time. Wiping the blood from his split lip, he glared up at a pair of soulless black eyes. "A simple 'no' would've been fine," he quipped.   
  
The men behind grabbed his arms, hauling him painfully to his feet, as another man struck his face once more.  
  
"Who sent you?"  
  
"Nobody sent me!" he protested angrily. "Jeez, haven't you ever lost a p . . ."  
  
Oomph! A fist landed just below his ribs, knocking the breath out of him. A bitter taste rose in his throat. 'Just hang in there,' he thought, swallowing convulsively.  
  
"Who were you talking to?"  
  
"Nobody!" he wheezed. "I was calling my . . ."  
  
The next blow almost made him lose what little control he had left over his rebellious stomach. Again, he was able to force it back down . . . this time. Thank God he hadn't had time for breakfast!  
  
Despite his outward calm, Gary's heart was beating like a trip-hammer. Already, his knees were getting weak, and he doubted that he would be conscious much longer. Where were the police? he wondered. Surely, with all the people outside, someone must have reported the gunfire! His hands itched to get at the paper inside his jacket. One glance at the headlines would tell him if he was . . . On second thought, maybe he was better off not knowing.   
  
The leader of the group that had preceded Gary through the back door stepped forward. While he was not as tall as the men who held Gary, nor as broad shouldered as the one who kept hitting him, he exuded an aura of such sheer . . . evil . . . and raw malice, it made the others seem. . . . insignificant. The butterfly knife he was flicking open and closed repeatedly just added to his casual air of menace.  
  
"I will ask you only once. What is your name? Who sent you? And who did you help escape?" he asked in a voice devoid of anything resembling human emotion.  
  
"What does it matter?" Gary asked tiredly. "You're gonna kill me anyway!"  
  
The heavy fists struck his face, this time, lights exploding in his head as they connected solidly with cheek and jaw. He felt blood flow from a cut just below his left eye. Gary found himself on his knees once more, only to be hauled roughly back to his feet. "Easy on the arms!"  
  
"Insolence will not help," the man with the arctic voice replied. "You have managed to find yourself in the wrong place, at the absolute worst of times."  
  
"Story of my life," he mumbled tiredly. A funny, metallic taste was creeping into his mouth, his ears were ringing, and his vision was closing in at the edges. The pain in his head, stomach, and back was eating away at his awareness. He realized that he could not hold on much longer. At least Teresa was safe!  
  
The leader turned his back on the half-conscious man. With a dismissive flick of the knife he gave the order. "Kill him."  
  
Gary's vision narrowed down to the barrels of the three guns aimed at him. All he could think of was, had he updated his will, lately?  
  
"Drop the guns and put your hands in the air!"  
  
Startled, Gary wrenched his arms loose and dropped to the floor . . . his face only inches from the empty gaze of the corpse. Repulsed and sickened he tried to roll away, just as all hell seemed to break loose; with rapid gunfire, and yells of pain. Something hit his left side like a fist, knocking him flat on his back. His last clear memory was of that one glazed eye staring back at him, as everything faded . . . to blackness . . .  
  
***********************************  
  
"I can't believe he got away again!" Kermit snapped, slamming his hand against the wall of the captain's office. "Why didn't we know about that trap door?"  
  
"Because it wasn't on the original plans," Simms responded with a sigh. Kermit was more than just one of her team. And she hated to see him this upset. Part of what drew her to the ex-mercenary was his intensity, drive, and compassion. It was also what worried her about him the most. "It was added later. At least this time we have a witness that puts Sung and his henchmen on the scene of a multiple homicide." She handed Kermit the file she had been reading. "He's over at Parkridge. Why don't you go have a talk with Mr. Hobson? See if he can tell us what he was doing there in the first place."  
  
Glaring at her, Kermit noticed how tired his captain, his friend, was looking. This case had meant just as many sleepless nights for her as it had for him and his team. Not to mention all the other cases she had to supervise. Reluctantly, he took the folder from her hand, reading its contents for the first time.  
  
"Gary Hobson," he read aloud. "Age 35, dark hair, dark eyes, average height, slender build." He glanced at the picture. The guy looked like an advertisement for 'Mom and Apple Pie'. "This was taken at the hospital?"  
  
Simms smiled as she pulled out another folder. "These are the photographs from the scene," she told him, handing over another envelope. Ouch! "But Mr. Hobson has quite a history. Seems he was a material witness in a counterfeiting case a few years back. Less than a year after that he was instrumental in flushing out a bad cop who was moonlighting as a contract killer. After he had framed Hobson for one of his hits. In between, he pulls people from burning buildings, rescues lost children from storm drains, gets taken hostage. . . a lot. Stopped a terrorist attack on the Sun-Times . . . Should I go on?"  
  
Kermit had snatched the much heavier file from her and was scanning through it in amazement. After a few moments of stunned silence he looked back to the name on the folder. He was sure it should have been 'Kent'.  
  
"This only goes back to '96," he commented, shocked. "How does one guy get into this much trouble in less than five years?" And why did he think it was just the tip of a huge iceberg?   
  
***************************  
  
Kermit arrived at the hospital expecting to find a heavily sedated, or barely coherent, patient. To his surprise, he found Hobson struggling to push an IV pole out the door of his room. The man looked like he had come out second best with a gorilla! Bruises and bandages covered most of the left side of his face, and his left arm was pressed tightly to his side. Just going by appearances, Kermit thought the man was two steps from passing out. No wonder he was having such a hard time getting past the tiny red-headed nurse, never mind the officer stationed at his door.  
  
"If you don't get back to your bed this minute . . ."  
  
"You don' understand," he pleaded, in a slightly slurred voice. "I'll only be a minute. I j-just need to . . ."  
  
"You've lost a great deal of blood, Mr. Hobson, and you're in no shape to be out of bed, let alone walking around," she insisted. "On top of that, you've just had a rather hefty shot of Demerol. You'll be out before you get to the elevator. I've already called your doctor. If he tells me it's all right, I'll take you down to see her myself. Until then, please return to your bed." Exasperated, she let fly with the ultimate threat. "Do you want your next sponge bath in ice water?"  
  
He shot her a 'look'. "You wouldn't . . ."  
  
"Try me."  
  
Kermit decided that was his cue. "Mr. Hobson? Detective Griffin, 101st," he introduced himself, flashing his badge. "I need to ask you a few questions." He waved a negligent hand in the direction of the room. "Perhaps you might be more comfortable in your bed." Hobson looked at him, then back to the nurse, finally closing his eyes in defeat. Suddenly, all the strength just seemed to drain right out of him as his grip on the pole tightened and his knees buckled. Kermit and the young officer grabbed his arms at the same time, saving him from hitting the floor. Between them, they managed to guide him back to the bed and get him settled in. After a quick once over to make sure he had not undone any of the surgeon's handiwork, the nurse thanked the two men and turned to leave.   
  
"N-nurse Bates?"  
  
She stopped at the foot of the bed, back stiff. "Yes, Mr. Hobson?"  
  
"Th-thank you," he stammered in a small voice. "A-and I'm sorry."  
  
Nurse Bates stance softened a bit as she turned to look into Hobson's sad brown eyes. But he looked away, genuinely embarrassed.   
  
"Umm, anyway . . . thanks," he repeated. "As soon as th-the doctor gets here . . .?"  
  
"I'll pass on your request," she assured him coolly. "Now get some rest, Mr. Hobson. That's not a request."  
  
"Yes, ma'am."  
  
As soon as the nurse had left, Kermit excused the officer and pulled a chair up to Hobson's bed. Without preamble, he led the younger man through what he had been able to report at the scene. Finally, he was able to steer the questions around to what he was most curious about. By that time, Hobson was growing tired and finding it hard to concentrate.  
  
"So, we have the little girl's statement as to why she was there," he concluded. "What I need to know is . . . what were you doing there, Mr. Hobson?"  
  
"Looking for her," Gary mumbled, groggily.   
  
"Again . . . why?"  
  
"She was . . . gonna be . . . hurt . . . killed." 'What's wrong here?' Gary mused, his mind growing foggy. 'So hard to think!' "Is she . . . okay?"  
  
"She's fine. They're just keeping her overnight to make sure she hasn't suffered any psychological trauma. How did you know that she was in danger, Mr. Hobson?"  
  
That sent alarm bells through Gary's clouded brain. His hand tightened, as if they still held the paper. Still, he was finding it harder and harder to stay alert. What did Nurse Bates say she had given him? How powerful was Demerol?  
  
"Just . . . knew," was the only reply he could manage. "I just knew."   
  
Kermit could see that Hobson was losing his battle to stay awake. He recognized the symptoms from the many times he had been in the same situation himself. The pain meds they had the kid on would have him drifting in and out for the next several hours. And he had used up what little strength he had at the door. Still, he had to ask one more question while Hobson was too groggy to evade it.  
  
"How did you know?" he repeated. "Are you psychic?"  
  
Hobson shook his head, fighting hard to think clearly. A sudden flair up of pain reminded him of the battering his head had taken. 'Note to head', he mused. 'No sudden moves.'  
  
"Don't think so," he mumbled thickly. So tired. "Some . . . sometimes . . . I just . . . know."  
  
Kermit sat back, puzzled. That made no sense. Either the kid was psychic or he wasn't. How could he 'know' things if he wasn't? And how could he manage to be in so many places at the right time if he didn't 'know'? It was at times like this that he missed having Peter around.   
  
There was an idea. If Peter didn't have the answer, maybe his father or the Ancient might be able to shed some light on the mysterious Mr. Hobson.  
  
*************************  
  
For some reason, Kermit was not really surprised to find both Cains hovering around the bed of little Teresa Han. Most of the residents of Chinatown relied on the Shaolin for help when more . . . modern means failed.  
  
Kwai Chang Cain was examining the little Han girl's Chi, or spirit aura, which was the closest Kermit could come to understanding the mysterious force Cain spoke of. As he examined her, he kept her engaged with his soothing voice and easy manner. Teresa Han seemed none the worse for her experience. She smiled easily at Kwai Chang's little jokes and gentle teasing. Finally, he turned to include the rest of her family in what he had to say.   
  
"She is . . . unharmed in both mind and spirit," he informed them. "The one who . . . saved her . . . also kept her from . . . witnessing anything that might have harmed her."  
  
"So," Peter sighed looking up at Kermit as if he had always known he was there. Knowing Peter's growing abilities as he did, the older detective did not doubt it for a minute. "How is Mr. Gary Hobson?"  
  
"Sleeping at the moment," Kermit shrugged. "In fact, I was just thinking of asking you two to take a look at him. Tell me what you think." He quickly related a little of Hobson's background, his puzzling statement, and his denial of psychic abilities. "Can he be psychic without knowing that he is?"  
  
Peter exchanged a quizzical look with his father. The older man just shrugged. It was a new one on him!  
  
"Given all those past incidents," Peter mused, "I'd have to say he'd be stupid not to at least suspect psychic abilities."  
  
"It's a little hard to judge right now," Kermit commented dryly, "but he doesn't strike me as a stupid man. A little addled maybe, but not stupid. He was smart enough not to call Nurse Bates bluff."  
  
The younger Cain winced in sympathy.  
  
"The ice water something or other?"  
  
"Got it in one."  
  
"That woman can be cruel. What did he do?"  
  
"He was trying to get down here," the detective replied, nodding at the little girl. "To her. He was almost . . . frantic. As soon as he knew she was not gonna let him, he . . . deflated. It took both Taggart and me to get him back to bed. Then the meds started kickin' in." he paused to run a hand through his dark salt-and-pepper hair in frustration. "He's a strange one."  
  
******************************************  
  
He was on his knees, something hard was digging into the base of his skull. 'Why? Why are you here? Why her, and not us?' One eye staring back at him out of half a face . . . Half a mouth moving, asking. WHY?  
  
Gary sat up as if spring loaded, a sharp pain in his side stealing the breath from him. Gasping, he looked around to find Det. Griffin lounging in a chair. How long had he been there? How long had he been out?  
  
"You still . . . here?" he gasped.  
  
"Got no place special to be," the detective shrugged. "Ready to talk some more?"  
  
Gary levered himself up on the side of the bed, hanging onto the railing until his head stopped spinning. "Not 'til I see Teresa," he insisted in a pain filled voice. "Have to know . . . she's okay."  
  
Puzzled, Kermit leaned closer. "The doctors say she's fine. So does her family."  
  
"Can I see her, please?" Gary grated out through clenched teeth, the heel of his right hand pressed against his aching head. "Just to be sure?"  
  
Kermit wasn't sure what it was that convinced him, the desperation in his voice, or the haunted look on his face. Wordlessly, he went in search of a wheelchair.  
  
It almost took physical force to get the patient past his vigilant nurse, but she finally agreed when Gary turned those pleading, puppy dog eyes on her and said, "Please!" in a voice so full of anguish she would have had to have been heartless to refuse.  
  
Gary had him stop just outside Teresa's room. The child's excited chatter could be heard through the half open door. A quick peek at her animated face was all the assurance Hobson seemed to need. Kermit watched his face carefully, for what, he wasn't sure. Did he inwardly harbor suspicions that the kid was some kind of child molesting stalker? All he saw was a man literally going weak with relief. A lot of the tension drained out of his posture as he listened to the child's laughter. He even managed a weak, lopsided smile of his own.  
  
"I thought you wanted to see her?"  
  
"N-no. This is fine," Hobson sighed. "She doesn't need to see . . ." he waved a hand at his battered features. "Or to be reminded. And her family doesn't need me . . . intruding."  
  
"You have a very keen protective instinct, Mr Hobson. You'll make a wonderful father, someday," Detective Griffin commented dryly.  
  
Hobson's already painful visage suddenly seemed to age. A look of such sadness crossed his face, Kermit was afraid he was going to break down in tears.  
  
"I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?"   
  
"Umm, no. No," he hastened to assure the detective as he turned the chair and headed back down the hall. Three separate sources of pain reminded him that he was not supposed to be doing that. "It's . . . nothing. Um, you might want to ask the family . . . has she had Chicken Pox, yet?"  
  
He allowed the detective to wheel him back to his room.   
  
Two men were standing outside the door to his room, talking with the officer stationed there. Gary shot a quick look up at his chauffeur, wincing at the movement. He saw no change in Detective Griffin's expression. Curious, he turned his attention back to the others. The younger one was tall and slender, with medium brown hair. The older man was heavier, but still seemed light on his feet.   
  
The younger man approached him, hand outstretched. "I'm Peter Cain, and this is my father, Kwai Chang. We're friends of Detective Griffin. He, umm, he's having a little trouble making sense of your statement and asked us to help."  
  
Gary's gaze flicked warily from father to son, and back again, absently shaking the proffered hand. "What is this? Father and son tag team psychiatry?" he quipped. "No thank you. The courts have already certified me as being as sane as the next guy."  
  
Ooops! Kermit had forgotten that little item. And now Hobson was on the defensive. Not good.  
  
"That's not it," Peter laughed gently. "We're priests. Shaolin priests."  
  
"Sh-Shaolin?" Gary repeated hesitantly, intrigued. "As in Kung Fu, herbal medicine, metaphysical phenomena, brands on the forearms, Shambala? That kind of Shaolin?"  
  
Father and son exchanged startled glances.   
  
"You are remarkably well informed about our religion," the elder Cain acknowledged.   
  
"I read a lot. So what do you want with me?"  
  
"Maybe we better get you back to bed, first," Griffin commented dryly, "before Nurse Bates revokes my breathing privileges."  
  
Once Gary was safely back in bed, and Nurse Bates was satisfied no harm had been done to 'her' patient, the trio began to ply him with questions.   
  
"How long have you been able to . . . 'just know' . . . things?" Peter asked. "Since," a quick look at the file in his hand, "the fall of '96?"  
  
"The week after Ma . . . my ex-wife . . . yeah," he nodded, biting back the bitter taste that still left in his mouth. "Th-that's when things got a little . . . weird."  
  
"In what way?" the elder Cain asked softly.   
  
Gary dropped his gaze, apparently finding something fascinating in the way the tape lay across the IV tubing. "I can't tell you," he replied in a quiet tone that was split between sullen and sad.  
  
"And why not, pray tell?" Kermit asked.  
  
"You won't believe me."  
  
"About being psychic?" Peter asked, incredulous. "Where have you been hiding, Hobson? They have 800 numbers and 'hot-lines', for cryin' out loud! The only difference between you and Cleo, is you don't seem to charge for your services. Do you?"  
  
"No!" He winced as pain shot through his head. Damn! No yelling! He continued in a somewhat softer tone. "No, I don't send my 'clients' a bill," he remarked sarcastically. "And . . . now read my lips . . . I . . . am . . . not . . . psychic . . . period. I have never been psychic. I probably will never be psychic. I don't have visions, hear voices, or speak with the dearly departed. I know a really great lady, Claire, who inherited her talents from an uncle named Milosh. You want a real psychic, go talk to her. I just have this . . . this knack . . . for being in the right place at the right time."  
  
"Over one hundred and seventy-three times in the last four years?" Kermit did not try to hide his disbelief. "C'mon, Pal! Give us a little credit!"  
  
Gary was pretty sure their numbers were short a hundred or so, but he had never bothered to count. He gingerly probed the swelling just below his left eye. His head was throbbing. His back, side, and stomach were sending similar messages to his pain centers, making it hard to stay focused.   
  
"I give you guys all kinds o' credit," he sighed, frustrated. "You do a hell of a job. Why can't you just accept me as a concerned citizen who just wants to . . . to help?"  
  
"Maybe 'cause I'm sick of burying people like you, Mr Hobson," Kermit snapped acidly. "You almost got killed this time because you couldn't stop and call the proper authorities!" He chose to ignore Peter's choked laugh. "You ran blindly into . . ."  
  
"Stop," Gary hissed. "Just back up, Mister! I did call the cops! I stopped at a pay phone half a mile away, when I thought I wasn't gonna make it in time. I even identified myself to the dispatcher, this time! And I did not run into that warehouse with blinders on. I may not 've known exactly how many guys would be shooting, but I was well aware of the danger! I had a choice between my safety and hers, and I chose hers!" He paused for breath, wincing at the pounding in his temples. "I . . . I may not be the most rational Joe you've ever met," he went on, making a visible effort to calm himself, "but, I'm not stupid, either. I know the risks. If there's time, I look for the safest way to . . . to do whatever I gotta do." The pain was getting intense. Gary closed his eyes, rubbing at his temples with the heels of both hands, face twisted in a painful grimace. "It's just . . . sometimes . . . my options are . . . are limited."  
  
The elder Cain rose from his seat and strode up to Gary's bedside.   
  
"Allow me," he said, pushing Gary's hands down. He began massaging the muscles at the base of the younger man's head and neck. Gary flinched at that first touch, but soon began to relax as his tension eased. "You carry a great responsibility for one so young," he observed. "Would it not be easier to . . . share your burden?"  
  
The massage was working its magic. As the pain eased, Gary found himself growing sleepy.  
  
"I have . . . friends," he mumbled drowsily. "Chuck. But he's in California, now. Zeke Crumb. Marissa . . ." His eyes snapped open. "Omigod! Marissa! Did anyone call her? Oh, man! She's gotta be frantic by now!" Pushing the startled Cain's hands away with a quick " 'scuse me," he looked around until he found the phone. "Sorry," he said as he began to dial. "Marissa's my business partner. She knows all about . . . what I do. But she's . . . Hello? Yeah, I'm okay. Slow down, Marissa. She's okay, too. Really, I'm fine. Just a few nicks, but they wanna keep me over night. Ma . . . Marissa . . . Maris . . ." Wincing, he held the phone away from his ear. An agitated voice could be faintly heard from where Kermit sat. She was not happy. When she paused for breath, Gary tried again. "Marissa, you'll get your 'I told you so's," he sighed. "I promise. I just wanted to let you know I may not be in to work for a few days." He shot Kermit a desperate look as he listened to her response. "Nothing like that, Marissa. I told you, I'm fine. But . . . well . . . I'm a . . . witness . . . yeah, well . . . not quite like last time. But . . . well . . . considering what happened . . ." He listened a moment, his expression softening. A sad smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "I will . . . I promise. You, too. 'Bye."  
  
He hung the phone up with a tired sigh. God! This was turning into a real mess! The last time he had found himself in this position, someone had shot up the bar. He couldn't put Marissa . . . or his patrons . . . in that kind of danger again. He looked up at Griffin.   
  
"So," he sighed, "where do we go from here? Protective custody?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Kermit assured him. "That little scene you witnessed bought you a few days room and board on the city. We'll set you up at a nice hotel . . ."  
  
Gary shook his head slowly. "I don't think so," he said with a small sigh. "Unless we can seal off the whole floor. I don't want anyone else getting hurt because of me."  
  
"That can be arranged," Kermit agreed, recovering quickly. "You'll have round the clock guards, room service . . ."  
  
"I have to be able to come and go," Gary told him flatly. "There are things . . . things I may have to do. And a phone! Some of those . . . things . . . just need a call to the . . . the right place . . . at the . . . right time," he finished lamely.  
  
"I don't think so! In case you've forgotten, Pal, you just witnessed four murders! By a man who makes up the rules to suit his mood. He's killed people just for spite! And he won't think twice about killing you!"  
  
"I know that!" Gary snapped, his strained voice almost a whisper. "I was there, remember? I was looking right in his eyes when he gave the order! As far as he's concerned, I'm already a dead man!" He squeezed his eyes shut, the heel of his hand pressed against his forehead as he made a visible effort to regain control. "And . . . and I have other responsibilities, too. This . . . thing you want to know about so bad . . . It's an everyday kinda . . . thing. I have to be free to act, ya know? Peoples lives can depend on this . . . this . . . thing."  
  
Frustrated Kermit began to pace, running his hand through his dark, gray streaked hair.  
  
"Then why not let the authorities handle this . . . thing?" he snapped. "Pass it on to whoever needs to be doing . . . whatever needs to be done." Great! Now he was talking in circles, too! He was suddenly reminded of his black-op years.  
  
Gary leaned back with a sigh. "It's not that easy," he replied despondently. "This . . . thing, as we're calling it now, only comes to me. Unless I'm in such deep trouble that I can't act on it directly. That's . . . been known to happen. Usually when I'm badly injured or in a life threatening situation. "A-and do you have any idea how hard it is to convince someone 'in authority' to act on something that might happen?" He shook his head, closing his eyes as the pain kicked in again. "'Crackpot' is one of the nicer things I've been called."  
  
He turned haunted brown eyes on Det Griffin. "Wh-when this . . . started, I chose to accept the responsibility for . . . acting on what I was given," he finished in a quieter tone. "That was the last real choice I had in all of this. To pass it off on someone else? That's not a choice. It's a cop out."  
  
Nurse Bates came in just moments later to see the other three men ranged about the room, staring with expressions ranging from guarded to sympathetic at 'her' patient! Hobson was idly plucking at a piece of lint on his blanket, carefully avoiding their gazes. She set the supper tray she was carrying on his table, eyeing him suspiciously as she uncovered his entree. Her protective instincts kicked into high gear at his despondent expression. Angrily she turned on Detective Griffin.  
  
"Just what have you three been doing to my patient?!" she snapped, eyes blazing. "If you've set back his recovery by one day . . ."  
  
"No!" Gary spoke up hurriedly, one hand raised imploringly. "It-it's okay," he hastened to assure her. "They . . . he's just doing his job . . ."  
  
"And I'm doing mine! I won't have anyone upsetting my patients! Even the obstinate ones! I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave!"  
  
"Please! They . . . we have to finish . . ." Hobson seemed at a loss for words. His earlier speech seemed to have exhausted his repertoire.  
  
"We have to set up protection protocols," Kermit hastily cut in. His lips twitched as Hobson shot him a thankful look. The kid was all right. "Mr. Hobson is a material witness to a major crime."  
  
Bates shot Gary a disbelieving look. "Witness or victim?" she asked pointedly. "I've seen his chart, remember."  
  
"Both," Gary mumbled. "Look, I'll be out of here first thing in the morning," he told her. As she prepared an angry protest, he hurried on. "I know. I'm in lousy shape. But, none of my injuries are life threatening. I'll be stiff and sore for awhile, but I'll get over it. And these guys will see that I don't over do it. I'm out of here first thing. Period." He could see she was still not convinced. "Do you want a shoot-out in the hallways? Patients getting hurt . . . or killed?" That got to her. "Could you help us? Please?"  
  
Amazed, Peter watched the young 'Dragon Lady' soften. Hobson's sincerity had knocked out all her arguments. Apparently, even the coldest of hearts was not immune to eyes that could plead without words. She still protested that he was in no shape to be going anywhere. That deep furrow in his side had just missed his spleen by two hairs and a half. And had taken more than sixty stitches!   
  
"All right! I'll help you," Bates gave in with poor grace. "I'll get you the papers first thing in the morning . . ."  
  
"Now," Gary said, overruling her. "I'll be gone before they make rounds in the morning." He gave his supper a tentative poke with his fork. Was that supposed to be potatoes? And what kind of meat was that? "Does hospital Jell-o come in any other color than green?"  
  
"They buy it in bulk. There is no way I can let you leave before the doctor. . ."  
  
"Yes, you can," he said with what Kermit called an 'aw shucks' grin, looking up at her from the corner of his good eye. The damage to his face only seemed to add to the effect. "Uncooperative patients do it all the time. Get the papers and I'll sign out AMA. You take out the IV, and I'm gone within the hour. I figure . . . what . . . another ten to twelve hours before the first team of hit men arrive?" he asked the other men. "Going by past experience, that is. I've only been down this road once."  
  
"Depends on how bad they want you," Peter shrugged. "Knowing Sung . . . he probably had the word out before the ambulance got there. You might want to skip supper."  
  
Gary eyed his tray warily, then glanced at the ex-cop with a raised eyebrow. "Ya think?"  
  
*************************  
  
An hour later, after having a change of clothes delivered, Peter was gripping Hobson's elbow and guiding him to his car. Kermit and his father had gone ahead to prepare the only alternative Hobson's demands had left them. Keeping one eye on his charge, and the other on their surroundings, the young Shaolin led the way across the floor of the underground garage.   
  
"Mind telling me where we're going?" the young barkeep asked hopefully.  
  
"My dad's place," he replied tersely. "An apothecary in Chinatown."  
  
Gary's sudden stop almost dislodged Peter's hand. "Are you nuts?" he exclaimed in disbelief. "You want to expose your dad to this kind of danger?"  
  
Without letting his guard down, Peter turned to face Hobson.   
  
"You said you've read about the Shaolin," he said. "And you did seem to know a lot. How much do you believe?"  
  
That stumped him. How much should he believe? The Kung Fu? Easy. The whole chi thing? Why not? The Shambala thing he found a little iffy. But, hey! Who was he to judge?  
  
"Most of it," he finally conceded. "Hell, I'm in no position to say anything is impossible," he added with a laugh. He started to wave the newspaper that had still, by some miracle, been inside his jacket when they returned his things. What was left of them, that is. What caught his attention, at first, was the blood stain. Then the headline. 'Two Killed In Hospital Shooting.' Quickly scanning the story, Gary pulled Peter back towards a concrete column. "We got company," he said by way of explanation.   
  
About that moment, a green sedan, with headlights blazing, came rolling up the ramp. As it drew near, the passenger window slid open and a hand appeared with a very big, very ugly gun. Gary suddenly found himself face down, with Peter Cain laying half across him! Loud reports from just above his head told him that Cain had come prepared. The sound of breaking glass attested to the accuracy of the young Shaolin's aim. Tires squealed as the car sped away!  
  
Stunned at the swiftness of the assault, it was a moment before Gary's mind registered that it was over. It took Cain hauling him to his feet to convince him. It was another second or two before he realized that a question was being asked. How had he known? Glancing down at a headline about prison reform, Gary just shook his head. "Never mind," he sighed.   
  
***************  
  
Kwai Chang Cain was a light sleeper, and an early riser. Therefore, he was able to awaken his temporary roommate at the requested time. He had some reservations, feeling that the young man was badly in need of the healing properties of a restful sleep. Yet Mr. Hobson had been adamant that he not be allowed to sleep past six thirty.   
  
However, the young man in question was already wide awake and sitting up on his spare bed. He did not look as if he had rested at all. Instead, he was already dressed in the clothes Peter had loaned him. As Cain entered with his breakfast, Gary was just pulling on his sneakers. He was having a little trouble with the laces.  
  
"You should not be getting dressed, Mr. Hobson," he gently admonished his young patient. "You could . . . reopen your wound."  
  
Startled, Gary almost dropped his shoe. He hadn't even been sure Cain was up, the man had been so quiet. "S-sorry, " he stammered. "I never know what kind of day it's gonna be 'til the paper gets here. I . . . I like to be ready."  
  
Cain shrugged as he set the tray on the bedside table. "I do not receive a . . . paper, Mr. Hobson," he sadly informed his guest. "I can have Peter bring you one, if you wish."  
  
"Mrowwr!"  
  
Thump.  
  
Gary grinned up at his host, as he finished tying his shoe. "Thank you, but that really won't be necessary," he assured him. "You wouldn't believe how reliable my paperboy is." He slowly levered himself up from the bed. "Do you have any milk?"  
  
Intrigued, Cain went to the kitchen for the requested item, as Hobson made his way to the front door. He opened it to reveal an orange/yellow tabby curled up on top of what appeared to be a newspaper. Hobson mumbled something to the small animal, which stood up, circled the young man's ankles twice, then strode regally towards the kitchen. Smiling indulgently, Cain poured the milk into a saucer and set it on the floor.  
  
Stooping to stroke the orange back, Cain looked up at where Gary was gingerly lowering himself to retrieve the paper. "He is . . . nice. What is he called?"  
  
"Just Cat," Gary gasped as he straightened up. "He just showed up one day," he went on to explain. "I never knew how long he intended to stay, so I've never bothered to name him. I'll probably never hit on his real . . ." His voice trailed off as he scanned the headlines. "Do you know where Sing Lao's Fireworks Emporium is?"  
  
"Yes. It is only . . . twelve blocks from here. Why?"  
  
Twelve blocks! Gary looked at his watch. Not enough time to get there on foot, especially in his present condition!   
  
"What's all the noise, Pop?"  
  
The words were barely out of Peter Cain's mouth before Hobson had grabbed him by the arm and started tugging him towards the door.  
  
"We have to hurry!" he was saying. "Sing Lao's Fireworks Emporium! We have to hurry!""  
  
"Whoa! Just hold up there, Pal!" Peter shook his arm loose from Hobson's frantic grasp. "You know better than this! You aren't going anywhere 'til you talk to me! Did you have a . . . vision? Or something?"  
  
Exasperated, Gary began to pace nervously. "I just know!" he grated out. "I know . . . without 'visions' or 'voices', that six people are gonna die if we . . . if-if I don't get my butt out that door and at least try to stop it! Now, I know you're tryin' to protect me, and I thank you for that. But, if protecting me means letting six others die . . . then . . . no thank you. And while we're debating, we could be half way there. Please!" His voice dropped to an anguished whisper as he added, "help me!"  
  
Later, Peter couldn't say what it was that convinced him, the voice or that haunted, desperate look in his eyes. Within moments, they were downstairs, in the car, and burning rubber. As he drove, Peter whipped out his cell phone and prepared to dial.   
  
"Talk to me, Hobson," he snapped. "What's going down?"  
  
Glancing quickly at the paper he was holding close to his side, Gary told him. "One of the workers, a new guy, is gonna do something to cause sparks, or some kinda fire in a box of sky rockets. Which will then start more fires, and more explosions, all over the building. That's when people start getting hurt a-and dying."   
  
"So, if we stop the first one . . ."  
  
"We stop everything," Gary finished. "That . . . that's the way I usually do this . . . this thing. Try to stop bad things before they . . . Here we are!" Gary was out of the car the moment Peter hit the brakes, the fire extinguisher clutched in his hands. Kwai Chang, who had been sitting quietly in the back seat, was right behind him. He was amazed at the younger man's stamina. Especially for someone just out of the hospital! For all his Shambala training, he still only made it to the benches a step behind Hobson.   
  
A seedy looking man was carrying a box of sky rockets, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. He turned to say something to the man behind him, the cigarette dropping unnoticed into a small dusting of black powder in the bottom of the box. The resulting flash startled both men, causing them both to drop what they carried. Frantically, they tried to smother the fizzling fuses.  
  
Gary was right on it. Several quick bursts from the fire extinguisher he had taken from Peter's car quickly defused the situation . . . literally. And, that quick, it was over. He pointed up to a sign over the door that repeated the same message in at least twelve languages. "There's a reason for that, Mack!" he snapped. "Try reading it sometime!" That said, he turned and marched out past the 'No Smoking' sign, muttering under his breath.  
  
"That's it?" Peter asked as they got back in the car. "A few squirts and you're done?"  
  
Easing himself into the front seat, Gary nodded. That mad dash through the storeroom had not been one of his better ideas. "If I'm lucky," he replied, gritting his teeth. He glanced down at the next headline. "Um, we need to . . . to get over to Randolph and Union," he stammered. "And you might want to call the Fire Department."  
  
Pulling out his cellular with an impatient sigh, Peter started the car. "And what, pray tell, should I say when I call them?"  
  
"How about a truck hauling toxic chemicals overturning as it comes off the interstate?"  
  
Peter did a double take as he hit the speed dial. "That . . . would qualify, I think."  
  
*******************  
  
They managed to slow the truck down, although it still overturned. The difference being that it did not slam into the support pillar, and crack open the tank. Relieved, Gary glanced down at an article about another proposed budget amendment. While both Cains were talking to an obviously agitated Griffin and a blonde woman, Gary took the opportunity to scan the rest of the paper. Nothing until this afternoon. Good, maybe he'd have time for a real meal.  
  
". . . and, while the Department appreciates your help, Peter," the blonde woman was saying, "I really think you should know better than to drag a protected witness around on rescue mi . . ."  
  
"Whoa!" Peter protested. "Who's dragging who? He's the one calling the shots, Captain! I'm just the bodyguard! Do you really think . . .?"  
  
Gary levered himself gingerly out of the car. He couldn't let this go on.  
  
"Mr. Cain is right," he spoke up into the rising tirade. His quiet statement cut through their louder voices, gaining instant attention. "I am the one calling the shots. You need me to testify against Sung. Who wants me dead." He turned to face the blonde woman. "Captain . . . I'm sorry. I didn't get your name."  
  
Taken aback by his soft voice and good manners, she held out her hand. "Capt Karen Simms, 101st Precinct."  
  
"A pleasure, Capt Simms," Gary smiled, shaking the proffered hand. Even with his injuries, that smile could melt glaciers. "As I was saying, I really appreciate your concern for my safety, but I have responsibilities, too. Mr. Griffin says you have quite a file on me, which is understandable. I . . . have this . . . knack . . . for finding trouble. But . . . but that just makes it all the more important for me to have a certain . . . freedom. I can't . . . I won't be locked away in some hotel room, or safe house. Not when I can do something to stop things like . . . like this." He waved a hand at the overturned truck. "Now, with my . . . knack . . . for knowing where trouble's gonna hit, and their knack for handling trouble," he waved the other hand at Peter and his father, "I couldn't be safer."  
  
Simms looked thoughtfully at the young man pleading his case before her, then shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hobson . . ."  
  
"Gary."  
  
"Gary, then," she acknowledged with an indulgent smile. "I can't allow that. You're too valuable as a witness to let you risk your life that way. Your safest course is seclusion . . ."  
  
Hobson's expression hardened. "No, ma'am," he stated flatly. "I've always found my safest course is to run for my life. Keep moving. I've been hunted before, and I know ways to stay out of sight you wouldn't believe! Even in as sorry a shape as I am right now, if I wanted to disappear, I could! Now, I know you can throw charges at me like 'obstruction of justice' or whatever. And haul me off to jail. I'll be dead before nightfall, and we both know it." His eyes never wavered as he met her equally direct gaze. "You know I'm right. Free, I can stay alive, and even do some good. Caged, I die. That simple."  
  
Simms challenged Hobson's haunted gaze for all of two seconds. "You have that 'Mr. All American, Boy Next Door' act down pat," she finally said in grudging admiration. "It makes people underestimate you."  
  
Gary ducked his head with a shy grin. "Nooo. No. That . . . that's the real me," he admitted, barely able to keep a tremor out of his voice. "The 'Mr. Confident, I Know What I'm Doing All The Time' . . . that's an act. I'm scared to death. But, I'm also right. And . . ." he looked around nervously, "should we be, you know . . . out in the open like this? I'm feeling a little . . . exposed. If you get my drift."  
  
Everyone shot a quick, guilty look around the scene.   
  
"Damn!" Kermit hissed, eyeing the growing crowd. "The kid's right. We could have a dozen hit men in that crowd. And snipers on any roof top in half a mile!"  
  
While everyone was distracted, Gary stole another glance at the paper. 'Witness and Detective Slain By Sniper'. "Um, we should . . . duck!" He hit the ground, taking Capt Simms with him . . . as something zipped by his ear.  
  
************************  
  
Gary hugged the dirt as another tiny cloud of dust was kicked up just inches from his hand! Too close! Thinking quickly, he hauled the captain to her feet and ran, half crouched to the cover of a nearby squad car. She was already barking orders into a hand held radio. In just a few clipped statements, she managed to apprise dispatch of the full situation. Looking around carefully, he noted that everyone was safely concealed from the sniper. Who, in turn, was still safely concealed from them. Flinching as glass shattered behind him, Gary began to wonder if his old buddy, Chuck, wasn't right. No good deed goes unpunished!   
  
An eternity later . . . actually less than ten minutes . . . the shooting stopped. Simms kept a hand on Gary's shoulder, warning him to stay put. Finally, the call came that the area was secure. The sniper had been caught. Weak with relief, Gary slumped to the ground, back propped against the vehicle. That was too close! He could feel his heart pounding like a bass drum at a rock concert. Glancing up, he caught Simms eyeing him with concern. Wordlessly he nodded, looking away. He'd be okay. She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then left him to check on the others.   
  
"How is he?" Peter asked as she approached.  
  
"Shaken, but he's holding in there," Simms replied. "But, this really caught us with our guard down. If Hobson hadn't acted when he did . . . that first shot might have gotten both of us." She looked over to where the object of their discussion was still huddled. "I don't believe this," she said in amazement. "Just seconds ago, he was just two steps from going into shock. Now, he sits there reading the damned paper!"   
  
Kermit followed her gaze to see Hobson, still on the ground with knees drawn almost to his chin, scanning what appeared to be the Sun-Times. For all his outward show of calm, he could almost hear the pages rattling from where he stood. The kid glanced up at that moment, meeting Kermit's shade-clad eyes for just a second, then looking away. 'He's way beyond scared,' the detective thought. 'He's hit the wall and come out the other side.'   
  
"He's coping," the detective advised his captain. "If you came up behind him right now, you could give him a coronary. But, he's tougher than he thinks he is."  
  
"Care to explain that?"  
  
The ex-merc chuckled, saying: "Just that he'd make a lousy mercenary, but an excellent soldier. He thinks fast, acts fast, and seems to have great intel. But, he's always looking out for the other guy." He turned to face his captain. "At the hospital, he said he had a choice between his safety or the child's. When all other options had failed, he made the choice. And, I don't think it's the first time he's made that choice."  
  
Simms swore. "A hero complex?"  
  
"I do not think it is that . . . simple," Kwai Chang Cain spoke up quietly. "He acts as one who was . . . chosen for a . . . task. A task that he feels is . . . beyond his abilities. Success brings no offer of reward. Failure . . . is a wound to the soul. He only seeks to . . . avoid being . . . wounded," he added with a shrug.  
  
"Speaking of which," Peter cut in, "hadn't we better get moving? The guy makes sense in at least one thing. A moving target is harder to hit."  
  
Capt Simms rubbed at her temples. This was giving her a migraine-sized headache. "Fine! Go!" she finally conceded. "Just check in every . . . two hours. At a quarter past the hour. And try to keep him out of sight, if you can. Just . . . keep him alive."  
  
The elder Cain turned to his son. "I must return to the apothecary, Peter. The Ancient and I have much work to do. And my students will soon be arriving." He gave the captain a small bow. "I, too, have . . . responsibilities."  
  
"Fine, Pop," Peter grinned. "Say 'hi' to Lo Si for me. You'll know where to find me if I need you."  
  
"I always do," Cain responded, giving his son a gentle slap. "And do not call me 'Pop'."  
  
Still grinning, Peter strode quickly over to where Hobson was just climbing to his feet. The paper had, again, been tucked out of sight. What was with him and that rag? He hadn't let it out of his grasp since it arrived that morning. For that matter, where had it come from? How had whoever delivered it known where to find him? And where did that cat figure into the picture? Peter began to realize that there was a great deal more to Hobson than anyone realized. Even Hobson.  
  
"You win, Kemo Sabe," he told his reluctant charge. "Until the Grand Jury convenes, I play Tonto to your Lone Ranger. Just don't expect any silver bullets."  
  
Gary barely suppressed a shudder. "No, just the lead variety," he quipped nervously. "C-could we . . . just . . . go somewhere for coffee? I don't really feel in the mood for breakfast anymore."  
  
Breakfast? Peter glanced at his watch, surprised to find it was just a few minutes past nine thirty. So much had happened, it felt like it should be much later. As he led Hobson back to his car, he noticed the younger man looking over to where the elder Shaolin was climbing into another car with Kermit.  
  
"He's not . . . he's not gonna . . . I mean . . ." he stammered.  
  
"What's the matter?" Peter teased. "You don't think I can protect you by myself?"  
  
"No! No, that's not . . . I meant . . . It's just . . . he's easy to . . . to talk to. Ya know?" He shrugged, embarrassed. "He seems, I donno, to understand just how . . . weird . . . things can get."  
  
Peter nodded, understanding. He helped Hobson into the passenger seat, before he took his own place behind the wheel. As they drove to the nearest coffee shop, he tried to get a 'feel' of what was going on with his 'client'.  
  
"You don't have a lot of friends, do you." It came out as more a statement than a question. "Don't get me wrong," he hastened to add. "I just meant . . . this thing you do . . . it doesn't leave you a lot of time for building lasting relationships, does it?"  
  
"Not . . . not really," Gary reluctantly admitted. "And it's . . . it's not the kind of . . . thing . . . you can trust just anybody with. It's more than just . . . There's a . . . temptation to . . . to misuse it. To get rich, or famous or . . . for power."  
  
"And you can . . . resist this temptation?"  
  
"I don't know if 'resist' is the right word," Gary admitted. "I just feel . . . like . . . that's not what it's about. For whatever reason, I was chosen to do this. I don't know why, or how, or by whom. But, it had to be for a good reason! Does that make any sense?"  
  
"A lot more than you'd think," Peter grinned. "One of the Shaolin beliefs is that there are forces for good and evil in the world. That all evil needs to get ahead, is for good people to do nothing. So, to counter that, certain people are chosen, by fate, god, the forces of light . . . whatever, to do battle with the Darkness. For some of us, that's taken literally. In your case . . . I don't know. Just to protect, maybe? Save good people from harm?"  
  
"Except, it's not limited to just 'good' people," the younger man sighed. "I can't make judgments like that. I can't say 'this man is a bigot' or 'that man is an ex-con', turn my back and say they deserve whatever happens. There's always more to it than that. The bigot has family that will be affected by his death. And, what about the guy who kills him? A basically good man whose life would be destroyed by that one moment of irrational hatred. The ex-con, a man whose life was destroyed by a moment of anger, looking for revenge. He almost killed my best friend, and the woman who put him away for ten years. He died saving her son! So . . . how do you choose? How can you say 'this one lives, that one dies'?"  
  
"You don't. Another Shaolin thing," Peter sighed. "No one can be turned away. Even Darkness has a soul that might be redeemed." He eyed his passenger in a new light. "You really do give this a lot of thought! Here we were thinking you just . . . rushed into things with blinders on."  
  
"Not if I can help it!" Gary snorted. "I'm no good to anyone dead. There's a Starbuck's." He pulled out his wallet and handed Peter a twenty. "It's on me." Peter just looked at him. "I . . .well, I just thought I should . . . you know . . . keep my head down?"  
  
"Right." Peter took the money, returning shortly with two large coffees and a box of Danish. "Black okay?"  
  
"Wonderful," Gary sighed, pocketing the change. He tore open a packet of sugar and one of cream, stirring them into the cup before replacing the plastic lid. That first sip was heaven! "So. What's the plan?"  
  
"You tell me," Peter shrugged as they pulled away from the curb. "You're calling the shots, remember?"  
  
Gary stared out the window as they drove, deep in thought. That mugging in Union Park was the only other item before this evening. And that wasn't for another couple of hours. "How are we on gas?" he asked suddenly.  
  
Peter glanced at the gauge. "Less than half a tank. Why?"  
  
"We're gonna be doing a lot of driving," Gary advised him. "Maybe we should fill up. Then I need to stop at a sporting goods store. I need to pick up a hockey stick"  
  
That got him a strange look from the ex-cop. "You're not in any shape for street hockey."  
  
"Not for that," Gary assured him. "For the muggers."  
  
"What muggers?"  
  
"The ones at Union Park. A small gang is gonna attack, rape, and rob two women having lunch in the park."  
  
"Why not let the police handle it?"  
  
"They're gonna be busy with the riot."  
  
This was getting bizarre. "Okay! Let's try this again. What riot?"  
  
"The one at Lake Shore Park." Silence. "When some guys trying to start a new religion get a bunch of Neo-Nazi types torqued off and they get into it with some multi-national youth group having a picnic . . . It's a mess. We don't want to go there. Nobody gets seriously hurt, thank God. A few sore heads and a broken nose. I figure if . . . if I just call in a warning for that one, the police can get there early and minimize the damage. But that still leaves the muggers to deal with and we're gonna be out numbered. And since you may not be able to protect all three of us . . . I'd just feel better if I had that hockey stick."  
  
Peter just shook his head with a sigh. "You're asking me to take an awful lot on faith, Hobson," he commented dryly. "How do you know all this? Where do get your information?"  
  
Wearily, Gary lay his head back against the headrest. How much could he trust this man? At the moment, he was trusting him with his life. Could he take that next step? Should he?  
  
"This, um, Shaolin thing," he finally said. "It . . . it can get a little . . . strange . . . sometimes?"  
  
"You got that right!" Peter responded with a laugh. "I'm just a priest and I get into stuff that would amaze Copperfield. Pop, he's a Shambala Master. Now that is getting into Rod Serling territory! Dream walking, time travel . . ."  
  
"Yes! Time!" Gary latched onto that word like a lifeline. "Time travel. You go into the future?"  
  
"No," Peter shook his head. "Pop tells me that the future is too fluid. Everything we do today has an affect on what shapes the future. The past is pretty much set in stone, since it's already happened. Although, we have had to go back a time or two to make it happen. Why?"  
  
Gary hesitated, trying to phrase his statement so that it made sense. "What I'm gonna tell you," he finally ventured, "you have to give me your word you won't tell anyone else. Not even your dad. It's something I'd like to talk to him about myself. Get his take on it. And promise not to drive me to the nearest nut house!"  
  
Puzzled, Peter agreed. So Gary told him. Everything. Even things he had not told his closest friends. About being at the Great Chicago Fire, and the St Valentine's Day Massacre. Even about the appearance of Lucius Snow's spirit when he was about to die. Other things he held back. His meeting with Cade Foster, and his strange trip to the Cheyenne Mountain complex . . . those weren't his secrets to tell. When he was finished, he sat back, half turned to face Cain. Watching for his reaction.  
  
Cain was stunned. He, quite frankly, didn't know what to think. Taken at face value, Hobson's tale was a one way ticket to the loony bin. Yet, he had already seen three examples this morning. And, if it was all true . . .  
  
"Wow," he finally responded. Then, "I believe you."   
  
"You do!?"  
  
"Sure! I mean, yes, it's weird," Peter explained. "But, Pop and I have done some pretty strange stuff, ourselves. You'd freak at some of the crap we have to deal with." He considered what he had just been told. "Or maybe you wouldn't. What gets me is, I've trained for this pretty much since I was a kid. You were thrown into it with no warning! That's cold! I'm . . . amazed that you're still sane!"  
  
Gary sat back with a relieved sigh, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. "Well, that's been put to the question a few times," he admitted. "I've even wondered at it myself, a time or two. Let's try that store over there. I really don't wanna go into this one bare handed." He pulled the paper out of his jacket and began to scan it for changes. "Hey! I must've missed this before."  
  
"What? A robbery, assault, another mugging?"  
  
"No! Dusty Wyatt's giving a benefit at United Center tomorrow night," he replied excitedly. "Man, I love his music!"  
  
Cain shot him a disgusted look as he searched for a place to park. "With that accent, I should've known you'd be a 'country' fan."  
  
"What accent?"  
  
*******************  
  
Peter passed on the warning about the riot when he checked in. That gave them plenty of time to get to Union Park before the mugging. They had not been able to find a hockey stick at the sporting goods store, so Gary had been forced to settle for a tennis racquet. It had not been cheap.  
  
"Do you always carry that much money around?" Peter asked between bites of his hotdog.  
  
"Yeah, well, lately," Gary shrugged. "Credit cards can be traced. ATM's are safer, but there are times when I've had to avoid those, too." He kept his left arm pressed against his side. A fact which did not escape Peter's attention.  
  
"You gonna be up for this?" he asked with concern.  
  
"I'm fine." A boy and girl playing Frisbee with their dog caught his attention. "You married, Cain?"  
  
"Yeah. You?"  
  
"Divorced. Got any kids?"  
  
"A son. Why'd you split up?"  
  
"Still haven't figured that one out," he replied in a slightly puzzled tone. "I thought she was happy. I'd given everything I could give to her, our marriage. I guess it just wasn't . . . enough. She kicked me out on our anniversary. A couple of weeks later, she shows up and tells me she's suing for divorce. That quick, I'm not married anymore."  
  
Peter winced. "That sucks! And this is about the time that . . ."  
  
"Yeah, the very next week," Gary admitted. "At first, everything was coming at me at once. I didn't know which way to duck. Then . . . I just . . . Marcia was gone. But, the paper wouldn't go away. Suddenly, there was no room for someone like her in my life. Don't get me wrong. I loved her, wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. But, she could be . . . ambitious. I guess that's what makes her such a good lawyer." He took a sip of his soda, then glanced at his watch. "It's almost time."  
  
They dropped the rest of their lunch in the nearest trashcan, then strolled casually toward the north side of the park. A few minutes later, they spotted the two women who fit the paper's description. One was slender with long dark hair. The other was slightly shorter with reddish blonde locks. Both were talking animatedly, unaware of the scrutiny they were getting from a group of teens just a few yards away. Peter and Gary quickened their steps, so that they arrived just as the boys started to block the ladies path.  
  
"You don't want to do this guys," Peter warned them. "Just let the ladies pass."  
  
The leader of the gang eyed the two men with a derisive sneer. They outnumbered these guys four to one. "Back off, man," he ordered. "It's nonayer business. We'll let 'em go . . . when we're through," he added with a suggestive leer at the blonde.  
  
"You're through now," Gary said. The dark haired woman shot him a startled look, but said nothing. "Just let 'em pass and we'll all go on our respective ways." The tennis racquet dangled almost negligently in his right hand. It didn't seem very impressive compared to the array of knives and night sticks the kids were carrying. But, he'd have to make it do. He held out his left hand and motioned for the two women to join them. The taller one had one hand in her purse as they started to go around the teen blockade. A grubby looking boy grabbed her arm, and got a face full of pepper spray! And the fight was on!  
  
The leader rushed Peter and found himself flying, to land flat of his back. The next one caught a foot in the gut, leaving him retching on the grass. Peter struck the third one in the chest with the heel of his hand, knocking the youth into the one who had been pepper-sprayed. Both landed in a heap.  
  
Another grabbed the blonde from behind. Bad mistake. She came down on his instep hard enough to hear bones crack, then decked him with a right cross. He landed on top of the first one Peter had laid out. The other three had charged Gary, seeing him as the easier target of the two men.  
  
Gary wielded his racquet like a pro. He blocked the first club with a backhand, following through with a left hook. Another guy came in from the left, though, and got a blow into his ribs. Just above the stitches. He fell to one knee, the pain stealing his breath and giving the youth an opening for a killing blow to the head . . . if it had landed. Gary brought the racquet up between the boy's legs as hard as he could. Game, point . . . and match. The young thug dropped his club, falling to his knees. For some reason, he no longer seemed interested in this violent little game.  
  
The last one had circled around behind Gary and was bringing his knife into play . . . when an arm wrapped itself around his throat, yanking him back.   
  
"Only a coward knifes someone in the back," a deep voice drawled. Still fighting for breath, Gary looked up to see his assailant caught in a strangle hold by a tall, lean faced man, wearing a cowboy hat. The hand holding the knife was twisted until he was forced to drop the blade. The blonde was holding onto another man, who was hauling one of the other boys up by the jacket, telling him to let the 'little weasels' go. There was something familiar about him . . . Then Peter was helping him to his feet, asking if he was alright.  
  
"Th-think so," he gasped. "Just . . . knocked the . . . wind . . ."  
  
"Buddy? Buddy Jackson?" the dark haired woman asked. That startled the other two men, and Gary found himself the object of intense scrutiny. "What the hell are you doing in Chicago?"  
  
"I'm s-sorry," Gary stammered. "I think you have me confused . . ."  
  
"Damn, Lula," the one that looked so familiar said. He let go of his prisoner, stepping up for a closer look. "It is Buddy. Never thought I'd be glad to see your face again." He grasped Gary's chin in one hand, turning his head to get a better look at his bruises. "Although, it looks like you're still p---in' people off. What the hell happened to you?"  
  
"Hey, Dusty," the other guy spoke up. "Want me to turn this punk loose and let him finish the job?"  
  
Startled, Gary backed up a step. This 'Buddy' character must 've been a real charmer!  
  
"I . . . ah . . . There's . . . Wh-who's Buddy?"  
  
The woman they had called Lula . . . strolled . . . up almost into his face. "Very funny, lover," she teased in a sultry purr. "Are you trying to tell me you don't remember me? And all we meant to each other? All those close . . . intimate evenings . . .alone?" She grabbed him by the jacket and yanked . . . hard. "Before you tried to use me, you rat!"  
  
Confused, Gary looked from her to the men, then to Peter, who was standing by with an amused, but puzzled, expression. What the hell was this about? He gently, but firmly pried the woman's hands loose and stepped back . . . several feet.  
  
"I-I'm sorry, but you have . . . the wrong guy," he stammered nervously, half poised to run. "My name isn't . . . Buddy. It's . . . it's Gary and I . . . live in Chicago. Andand . . . who the hell is 'Buddy'?"  
  
"If you ain't him, you're his twin," the other man said, finally shoving the boy away. "Run home to your momma, boy." He walked up for a closer look. "He was a roadie with our crew for a coupla years. Cocky little smarta...."  
  
"Ease off, Earl," the blonde ordered. "These gentlemen saved us from a beating, or worse. And he's hurt. Give him room to breathe, at least." She held out a hand. "I'm Harley Chandler. This is my husband, Wyatt. That's Earl, and I think you've already met Lula."  
  
"Gary Hobson." He gave her hand a firm shake. "My friend is . . . Peter Cain. Glad we could . . . Wyatt? Dusty Wyatt?" His battered face split into a big grin. "I've been a . . . f-fan of yours . . . for years! I can't . . . b-believe this!"  
  
Wyatt looked at Earl doubtfully. "That doesn't sound like Buddy."   
  
"W-we played 'Cross My Heart' . . . at my w-wedding!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "Th-this is in-incred . . . great! Oh, man!" He closed his eyes as a spasm of pain shot through his left ribs, almost bending him double. Something warm and wet was seeping into his waist band. He dimly heard Dusty say something that sounded like "Definitely not Buddy."  
  
Lula colored up to her roots. "Oh, my! I am so sorry!" she exclaimed. "But . . . even with all that . . . " she indicated the cuts and bruises, "the resemblance is uncanny! Even your voice . . .! You don't write songs do you?"  
  
Peter could see that Gary was way off balance. The short fight had taken more out of him than it should have. He was hugging his left side again, and breathing in short little gasps, making speech difficult. The mistaken identity didn't help. Add star struck into the mix . . . He started forward, but Wyatt and Earl beat him to Gary's side . . . just as his knees started to give. They guided him over to a nearby bench and sat him down.  
  
"Damn, son!" Wyatt cursed. "Why didn't you say you'd been cut? Let me get a look at . . ."  
  
"S'okay," Gary gasped. "Just broke . . . some stitches." And maybe a rib, he added to himself. "Should've . . . blocked that . . . club a little . . . better. Hurts."  
  
"I'll bet," Peter commented dryly. "We'd better get you to a hospital, Gary. Get those ribs looked at." He looked at Wyatt. "Would you stay with him while I get my car? I don't think he can walk right now."  
  
"No problem," the singer nodded. "Shouldn't you call an ambulance?"  
  
Peter shook his head. "Cook County is just a few blocks from here," he told them. "I can have him there before the ambulance could reach us." He gave Gary's shoulder a pat, promising to be right back.  
  
He returned to find Gary still trying to talk to his idol between breaths. The kid was pale as a ghost, and grinning like an idiot. Completely star struck! Wyatt and Earl helped load the young hero into the front seat, promising to stop into McGinty's before they left the city.  
  
"That was . . . great!" Gary enthused as they drove away. "Dusty . . . Wyatt! I . . . can't . . . believe . . . we saved . . . Dusty Wyatt's . . . wife! I can't . . ."  
  
"Slow down, Hobson," Peter admonished. "What you can't seem to do, right now, is breathe. How am I supposed to protect you if you keep pulling stunts like this? Those punks could've killed you!"  
  
"All . . . p-part of the . . . the job," Gary gasped painfully. "Christ! This hurts!"  
  
*******************  
  
"It's been awhile," the young doctor commented as he prepared to repair the stitches in Gary's side. "What was it last time? A broken arm?"  
  
"And the hand," Gary reluctantly admitted. "Cast came off a coupla weeks ago. Easy!" The area wasn't quite numb, yet.   
  
"Sorry. We'll give it another minute." He glanced up at the x-ray hanging on the view box. "You can add a cracked rib to your collection. And a teensy little pneumo. That's where air has leaked in between the lung wall and the chest wall."  
  
"I know what a pneumo is," the patient sighed. "Been here before. And I know it can be too small to need a chest tube. Been there, too."  
  
"Right. I remember now." He probed the wound gently. No reaction. Satisfied, he picked up the hemostats and set to work. "Hell of a gash, here," he commented. "How'd it happen?"  
  
"Short version? Warehouse, little kid, gangsters, bop, bang, here I am. Can we just . . . you know . . . get this over with, Dr Carter?" he asked. "I'm feeling a little . . . um . . . exposed here."  
  
Shaking his head with a grin, Dr Carter tied off another stitch. "You condense a story more than Reader's Digest. I'll bet you could get 'War and Peace' down to twenty-five words or less."  
  
"Have to . . . ummph! . . . read it . . . first."  
  
***************************  
  
"He's fine, Karen," Peter was saying into the pay phone when Gary came out. "A cracked rib, and a few busted stitches is all. You want to tell him? . . . He won't go for it, but I'll try." He turned to his young charge. "You ready for that safe house, yet, Hobson?" Gary just shook his head as he tucked in his shirt. "That's a negative. And I don't think I should press the issue, 'cause he's lookin' around for the door . . . Right. Two hours. 'Bye."  
  
"She heard?"  
  
"Wyatt's manager, that Lula woman who was all over you," he grinned, "was tryin' to go behind the boss man's back and stir up some media attention for you. The paper she called, the Sun-Times, called the precinct to confirm her story. Relax, Simms denied everything. Which was okay since no one had reported the crime."  
  
Stunned, Gary had to sit down. "The Times? Oh, man! Do you know if she mentioned my name?"  
  
"Probably. Why?"  
  
"I'm . . . ah . . . pretty well known over there," he admitted. He jumped up again and began to pace. "This is not good. There's a political writer, Molly Greene, who knows me from when I was on the city council for a few weeks . . ."  
  
"You were?"  
  
"We needed a traffic light," he murmured with a dismissive gesture. "And a photographer, Miguel Diaz. He has a file on me that goes back almost to the beginning. I got it away from him once, but he's real persistent. And, he thinks I'm some kinda hero . . ."  
  
"Umm, Gary," Peter interrupted his mumbling and pacing by gently grabbing his arm and leading him out to the parking lot, "I hate to be the one to break this to you, but . . . you are a hero."  
  
"No, I'm not," he insisted. "I'm just . . . average. A hero is someone . . . I donno . . . special."  
  
"Define 'special'," Peter urged, helping him into the car.   
  
By the time they were both buckled in and on the road, Gary had his thoughts organized enough to answer. "Special is someone who goes out everyday," he explained, "knowing that what they're doing is . . . risky. That they could be killed doing whatever it is they do, but they do it anyway. They don't do it for the 'thank you' or for rewards. They do it because someone has too. Because they're needed. People like the police, and the fire department. Paramedics take huge risks. Those are real heroes."  
  
"You romanticize too much," the ex-cop laughed. "Those people are professionals. They're trained at what they do. And a lot of them are not as high minded as you think. They're people, the same as you and me. I should know. And you still haven't told me . . . doesn't what you do fit that description? You've . . . what? Pulled people from burning buildings? Stopped robberies. Rescued a lost child from a flooded storm drain when even the 'real heroes' refused to go in? Yeah, I've read your file. And that's not even the half of it, is it? The only difference between you and the people you just named is . . . you don't get paid."   
  
Gary waved a hand dismissively. "The only thing special about me is this . . . paper . . ." His voice trailed off as he stared out the window. "I've said that before. To Marissa. She's my partner."  
  
"I remember. You called her from the hospital."  
  
"Yeah. She's a psych major," he added with a small twitch of a smile. "I think she's secretly practicing on me. You know. If she can keep me sane . . .? Anyway, she once told me that the only reason the paper comes to me is because there's s-something special . . . about me. That I just hadn't . . . seen it yet." He leaned his head against the window, eyes closed. The cool glass felt so good. Relaxing. "I guess . . . guess I'm not . . ." He tried ,unsuccessfully, to stifle a huge yawn. "Not smart . . . enough . . ."  
  
Peter spared a glance, to see his passenger had drifted off to sleep. He drove around in silence for a while, thinking about all that Gary had told him. One thing for sure, Hobson could never be accused of having a swelled head. Swellings, yes. Plenty of those. Swollen . . .? Almost killed saving those women, no big deal. Business as usual. But then his idol shows up! Wow!  
  
"Some hero," he grinned, shaking his head.  
  
*********************  
  
Gary snapped awake with a choked cry the second the car stopped. It took him a moment to orient himself . . . and for the last nightmare image to fade. He ran a hand over his face, as if to wipe away the last vestiges of the dream.  
  
"Wh-where are we?"  
  
"Just a couple blocks north of Lake Shore park," Peter replied. "Have to make a pit stop. How about you?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, yeah." He yawned, trying to banish the last traces of sleepiness. "How long . . .?"  
  
"Just a couple of hours," the ex-cop told him. "You needed it. Pop said you didn't sleep well last night. Want to . . .?"  
  
"Not yet," was the too quick reply. He reached for the door handle. "We, um, should take a few minutes . . . freshen up. Then we'll need to find someplace to hide your car."  
  
"Hide my car? What on earth for?"  
  
"I should have thought of it before," Gary confessed. "Your car was right out in the open. The only one there with out a light or markings of some kind on it. How long before the sniper gets to 'make his call'?"  
  
Peter sat back, chagrined. He had been away from regular police work too long. Why hadn't he seen that? "You take paranoia to a whole new level, Hobson," he snorted. "Do you know that?"  
  
"It's only paranoid if the bad guys aren't real," Gary responded with a lopsided little grin, his eyes tired and fearful. "Am I wrong?"  
  
"No," he admitted. "You're right. I should've thought of it myself, is all. After all, I'm the ex-cop!"  
  
"Don't beat yourself up about it," Gary shrugged. "After all, how many times have you been the target of a statewide manhunt?"  
  
"Just once," Peter remembered with a small shiver. "A couple of the worst days of my life."  
  
Gary did a 'double take' at that bald statement, but kept walking for the restroom. "Umm, well, I've been through it twice. Both times accused of terrible . . . cold blooded crimes." He swallowed convulsively, then abruptly gave forth with another sad eyed grin. "So that makes me the one with the most experience. And, trust me, it only gets better."  
  
Less than half an hour later, they were on the expressway, headed for their rendezvous with Kermit. They had been driving in silence most of the time, both lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Peter had to ask the question uppermost on his mind.  
  
"What was it like . . . for you, that is. The running," he quickly added at Gary's puzzled look.  
  
"Ooohh . . . Lonely. Cold. Always seems to happen in the winter," he explained. "The first time was when Harry Hawkes was murdered. I can't go into that too much. But, I spent the night riding the EL. The rest of the time, I was trying to clear my name . . . and stop another murder."  
  
"And the second?"  
  
"When Scanlon . . ." Gary gave vent to a shuddering sigh. "That was the worst. The evidence kept piling up against me. Things that should've come up clean . . . didn't. Everything I had said or done to try to prevent it was twisted to make it look like I had planned it in advance. An automatic death penalty. Even the two cops that I knew, that I turned to for help . . . But, what could they do? They had to go with the evidence. And it all pointed straight at me. So, I ran. And I searched . . . for a witness, hard evidence, anything to prove my innocence. I don't think I've ever felt more scared or alone in my life."  
  
"I remember reading about that, now," Peter commented. "You saved the two cops heading up the task force to catch you, from the two men who were framing you. Talk about going above and beyond . . . "  
  
Gary stared out the window, so Peter could only see the reflection of his eyes. They were sad . . . haunted. "As bad as all that was," he sighed, "what I found . . . find . . . hardest to deal with is . . . they won't talk about it."  
  
"Who won't?"  
  
"Brigatti and Armstrong," Gary replied softly. "Of all the people I know, on the force that is, I really thought they would at least . . . have some doubts. Brigatti did, but Armstrong kept brushing her off. And I know they both regret what happened. Over the last year, since it happened, we've gotten to be fairly . . . But we never . . . I just don't feel it's my place to bring it up, ya know? That would be kinda like . . . rubbing it in. And . . . and it makes me feel . . . like I'm missing out on something. That there's always gonna be . . . something hanging between us, keeping us all at arms distance."  
  
"No closure," Peter nodded. "It'll always be unfinished business."  
  
Gary had pulled the paper out again, to check for changes. "Ah, Peter. You remember what I said about the car being recognized? Well, I suggest you take the next exit, or there won't be enough left to recognize."  
  
Quickly checking the rear and side view mirrors, Peter turned on his blinkers. "What are we talking about here?" he asked. "Accident or deliberate?"  
  
"Very deliberate," Gary informed him. "Unless someone can 'accidentally' fire off an anti-tank weapon." Glancing around, he let out a low whistle. "F-from the looks of it, a very big, ugly . . . um, can we go faster? Lots faster?"  
  
Finally seeing what his passenger had seen, Peter yanked hard on the wheel, cutting off the green van that was coming up on their left. The vehicle swerved, causing the man kneeling in the half open door to fall back inside. Their was a loud whumph!, then the roof of the van exploded upwards with a great billow of smoke and flame! The rolling disaster continued to veer towards the median, finally grinding to a halt against the concrete divider. There were a lot of tires squealing, horns blaring, and general chaos, as the other motorists tried to avoid the wreck. Fortunately, it was well past rush hour, and traffic was light going downtown. A few cars stopped, but none hit the wreckage. Gary half turned in his seat, and saw three men stagger from the smoking hulk. Sinking back with a sigh, he scanned the paper again. 'Thank god,' he thought. 'No one was hurt!' He must have said something out loud, because Peter shot him a startled look.   
  
"Are you actually worried about some guys who just tried to kill you?" he asked, incredulous. When the younger man didn't answer, he shook his head in disbelief. "I can not . . . Where were you raised, Hobson? Don't you know that you can't go around feeling sorry for the enemy?"  
  
Saddened, Gary kept his gaze fastened on the paper in his hands. But, Peter could have sworn he   
heard him mumble something that sounded suspiciously like: "Why not?"  
  
******************************  
  
Gary sat slumped in the front seat while Peter brought Kermit up to date on their activities so far. From the way the ex-cop was gesticulating, he must still be upset about the near miss on the expressway. He was sorry for that, but he couldn't help being relieved that no one had been hurt. Not even the men who had tried to kill them.   
  
"I don't know how to get a handle on this guy, Kermit," Peter complained. "He's got this incredibly strong sense of . . . of duty, I guess. Didn't hesitate to jump right in and help those two women, even beat up as he is. Crazy thing is, I think he would've gone ahead with it even if I hadn't been there. Then, when we're almost blasted off the road, he's relieved . . . relieved . . . that the assassins aren't hurt! And he's got to be one of the most stubborn guys I've ever met! He still refuses the safe house, so I don't know where we'll be tonight." He rubbed a hand over his face in frustration. "Um, tell Jordan I'll call when I can, and to give Danny a kiss for me."  
  
"No problemo," his friend agreed. "Has he told anything about . . . how?"  
  
Peter sort of half slumped against a support pillar. This was tricky. Gary had told him everything in confidence. Of all people, he knew Kermit was the one layman that would understand that, plus he was immersed enough in the metaphysical world that the Shaolin embraced to not dismiss his story out of hand. But how much could he tell him without betraying Gary's confidence.   
  
"A lot," he finally admitted. "We got to talking, and he started asking about Shaolin, then . . . Kermit, he has got to be one of the loneliest people on the planet. I can't tell you everything he told me, but . . . he opened up like a steamed clam. And it's just as weird as anything you've seen Pop do, just not as . . . obvious." He paused, considering his next words. "What he told me was kind of like . . . a confessional. I can't tell you everything without his permission. But, I'll try to talk him into it tonight. Thing is, we can't let this go past me, you, and Pop. Maybe Lo Si," he added with a shrug.  
  
"Why not? Is it that weird?"  
  
"It's not that," Peter laughed. "Certainly not as weird as the Dark Warrior or us being controlled by that board game. But, the less interference this guy has to put up with, the better. He's been pretty effective on his own."  
  
"Effective at what?" Kermit was almost pleading. "Give me a few hints at least!"  
  
"Saving lives," he replied simply. "That bar may be his livelihood, but his business is saving lives."  
  
*****************  
  
They now drove a rather non-descript Ford sedan. Gary's offer to drive had been firmly turned down. "I'm trained to drive like a maniac when I have to," Peter reminded him. "And, the last time I checked, you were still walking wounded. So," he added, nodding at the paper, "where next?"  
  
"Oh! Umm, the Crabshack," Gary responded. "A twofer."  
  
"'Scuse me?"  
  
"A twofer," he repeated. "First, there'll be a woman choking on the engagement ring her boyfriend drops in her drink while she isn't looking. About a minute later, an assistant chef is gonna have an accident in the kitchen. Details are a little sketchy on that one, but the fire injures three. Barring disasters, it should only take a few minutes. That'll still leave us plenty of time to get to a pawn shop on Lower Wacker."  
  
"A robbery?"  
  
"No," Gary snorted in disgust. "Guy tries to pawn a snake! The lady running the night shift'll have a heart attack." He shook his head ruefully and stuffed the folded paper back into his jacket. "The things some people do for money."  
  
They drove in silence for a few minutes. The easy camaraderie they had enjoyed earlier that day had been hard to recapture since the incident on the expressway. Peter couldn't figure where Gary's head was at in all this. Would he go so far as to let himself be killed in order to avoid anyone else being hurt?  
  
"I'm not going to just lay down and die," Gary spoke up suddenly.  
  
Peter shot him a startled look. "You read minds, too?"  
  
"No," the younger man chuckled. "It just took me this long to figure out why you were so upset back there." Wincing, he turned to look directly at Cain. "In spite of the fact that some people are willing to believe me capable of almost anything, I'm not a killer. And I'm not crazy. I'll fight for my life, if that's what's worrying you. But, it won't break my heart if we get out of this without anyone else getting killed, either. I've seen people die. Not just read about it."  
  
Peter recalled his father's words from that morning. That failure was a wound to Hobson's soul. Equate failure with death . . . He was beginning to get a lock in Hobson's mindset. 'Pop needs to sit down with this guy for a nice . . . long talk. Of about a month or so,' he thought.  
  
"I've seen people die, too, Gary," he responded quietly. "Even had to pull the trigger a few times. It's not an easy choice to make. I guess I can understand where you were coming from back there. Still, we both have to be ready to defend ourselves. Just like in the park this afternoon."  
  
"No argument there," Gary assured him. "Just don't expect me to carry a gun or anything like that. A hockey stick is about my speed."  
  
"I donno," Peter grinned. "Looked like tennis was more your game."  
  
***********************  
  
It was getting pretty late by the time they were done with the paper. They had gotten to the restaurant in plenty of time for Gary to convince the boyfriend to try a more traditional method of proposal, while Peter ducked back to the kitchen and snatched a carelessly tossed rag away from the burners. Quick, easy. No muss , no fuss. They came away with nothing more than one more person thinking Gary was, at best, a nut. He was used to that.  
  
The guy heading into the pawn shop was a little harder to convince. No, they tried to explain, he wouldn't get half what he paid for his son's Bald Python. No, the shop did not even deal in live animals. What did he need the money for, anyway? Maybe he should find something just a little less . . . slithery to pawn. Gary finally explained that the clerk was a very nice fifty-six year old grandmother with a snake phobia and a heart condition. And, if he went ahead and showed her the snake, he would be liable for whatever happened to her. If he insisted on selling the snake, try a pet shop.  
  
"Shoulda sent him to Hanratty's," Gary mumbled as he slid gingerly back into the car. God, he was sore! "That guy would set him straight in a hurry."  
  
"What next?"  
  
Scanning the paper one more time, Gary replied with relief, "Bed. We're done for the day."  
  
"Any objections to a safe house at this point?" Peter asked.  
  
The young barkeep looked at him sideways. "Depends. How much privacy will I have? And how many people will be there?"  
  
"It took some fast talking, but . . . you, me, Kermit, and two guards at the door. Top floor of the Hilton closed off for our convenience. Sound good?"  
  
"I can leave if I need to?"  
  
"As long as one of us is with you at all times," Peter agreed. "I had to convince Kermit, who had to convince Simms, who had to . . ."  
  
"I get the picture," Gary conceded. He leaned back with a sigh. "I'm being a royal pain. Sounds fine. Better than the train station. I don't suppose a hot shower and change of clothes could be included in the deal?"  
  
"Sponge bath," Peter replied with a significant look at Gary's side. "Keep those stitches dry."  
  
"Hmmm? Oh., yeah. Almost forgot. I can handle that, I suppose," he sighed longingly. "Dinner?"  
  
"On the house," the older man grinned. "We'll order room service. You must be starved. I am."  
  
"No, tired mostly," he admitted. "I'll be stiff as a board in the morning."  
  
"Been taking your meds?"  
  
"Wha . . .? Oh. The antibiotics, yeah. The pain meds make me loopy. But, I'll take one tonight," he promised. A few minutes of silence, then, "You trust this Kermit guy?"  
  
"With my life," Peter replied without hesitation. "On several occasions. Why?"  
  
"You think . . . He's used to your Shaolin thing, and everything that goes with it?" Peter just nodded, puzzled. Was this going where he thought it was going? "Do you . . . I mean . . . could he handle . . . would he have to . . . tell anyone else . . . if I told him about . . . you know?"  
  
"Kermit's an ex-mercenary, and ex-spook," Peter told him. "He keeps secrets from himself. Yeah, he'll keep quiet. Why? I mean, you obviously don't want to spread this around, and I can see why. So, why expand the list?"  
  
"Well, he'll be right there when it comes tomorrow," Gary pointed out. "It's usually hard enough to explain my obsession with the paper. The kicker is trying to explain how the cat keeps finding me. Oh, that reminds me! I need to get some cat food!"  
  
******************  
  
"Mmrrrr?"  
  
"Not yet, Mom," he mumble sleepily.  
  
"Mmrrowwr!"  
  
"Just five more . . . OW!" Gary almost rolled off the bed when the single claw plucked at his bare arm. Would have if Peter had not been right beside him. "Jeez, Cat! Don't do that! Give a guy heart failure," he grumbled. "Like I don't have enough holes in me already." He sat up with a groan, easing aside the covers. Peter had woken instantly, reaching for his gun. "Go back to sleep, Peter," he sighed. "I just have to feed the boss, and check my schedule."  
  
"Wha . . .?" He stared at the orange cat daintily licking its claws at the foot of the bed. "H-how did . . .? That's the cat? The one . . .?"  
  
"The one and only," Gary replied as he padded barefooted into the next room. He came back with a disposable plastic bowl filled with kibbles and another of milk. As soon as the cat was taken care of, he sat propped against the headboard, scanning the paper he had found on the night table. His eyes widened as the first headline jumped out at him. "Get dressed," he said urgently, his voice quiet. "We gotta get outta here." He was already pulling on the clean clothes Kermit had brought with him the night before. "I'll wake Kermit. You tell the others to clear out."  
  
"What is it? What did you see?" Peter queried as he slipped into his own clothes.  
  
Gary just tossed him the paper as he pounded on the ex-mercenary's door. 'Explosion Guts Top Floor Of Hilton.' "It goes on to describe how the floor had been commandeered by the police, yadda yadda, ten minutes after room service sent up breakfast, and so on."  
  
"So . . . I take it we eat out this morning," Peter commented dryly. "How the hell did they find us so fast?"  
  
"That's the problem with using fancy hotels," Kermit remarked with a yawn. "There's always someone willing to talk. For the right price. Are you sure of this, Hobson?"  
  
"My sources are usually pretty accurate," he replied hurriedly. "Look, if we leave now, the explosion won't happen, 'cause we won't be here to order room service. But, they still know we're here, so someone is probably watching the exits. Any ideas?"  
  
"Chopper on the roof?" Kermit shrugged as he picked up the phone. He spoke quietly into the receiver, relaying the situation in terse sentences.  
  
Gary considered it for a moment. He had never ridden a in a helicopter, but . . . "There's someone watching the roof with a ground-to-air something or other," he replied, glancing at the changing headline as he pulled on his shoes. That always sent a chill down his spine! "Besides, we'd have to land, eventually. Is there a laundry chute on this floor?"  
  
Peter and Kermit both looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Do you have any idea how high up we are?" Kermit asked.  
  
The view from the roof flashed through Gary's mind for the moment, along with why he had been up there. "Yeah," he replied softly. "I do. But, if it's possible, I'll risk it."  
  
"It's not possible," Peter stated flatly. "We'll just have to hope they don't have anyone in the garage, yet."  
  
A glance at the paper. "They do," he told them. "And we can't take the same car, anyway. It's rigged."  
  
"Figures. Can we get another car this quick, Kermit?"  
  
Kermit shot his friend a puzzled look, shaking his head. "No. We'll just have to take the Kermitmobile. You will get around to explaining this sometime?"  
  
Gary and Peter exchanged questioning looks. Finally, Gary nodded. "As soon as we clear the grounds," Gary agreed. "Just . . . well, never mind. You'll see."  
  
As they left, Peter warned the two officers at the door about the bomb in the car and the possibility of a gun battle in the garage. All the way to the garage, Gary kept one eye on the headline. Every time it changed, he acted. They got off the elevator two floors before the gunmen would have gotten on, taking the stairs at a run. Three floors later, they took a different elevator to avoid the two coming up the stair well. One floor above the garage level, Gary ordered them off again. He gave Peter a trapped, hunted look.   
  
"They're watching the elevators and stairs," he said. "They may have more in the alley. I've got an idea, but I'd like to hear yours first."  
  
Peter looked at his friend. "Think you can make it to the Kermitmobile on your own?"  
  
"Not a problem," Kermit shrugged. "They won't start anything unless they see him," he added, indicating their reluctant guest. "I can drive around back and pick you up at the door."  
  
Gary took a quick glance at the paper. The headline was not encouraging, but he would keep it from happening. "Sounds better than my plan," he agreed quickly. "Let's do it." 'Before I loose my nerve,' he added to himself.  
  
While Kermit continued down to the garage, Gary and Peter took a circuitous route to the kitchen. At the back door, they waited patiently for the ex-merc to show. Gary kept one eye on the paper as they crouched low. 'Ex-cop Slain In Shoot-Out.' Not if he could help it! The moment Kermit appeared, Peter took Gary by the arm, ready to yank him to safety, if necessary. At first, the young barkeep seemed compliant. The second the car door opened, however, he shook off Peter's hand and shoved him into the back seat, ducking low at the same instant. What felt like a sledge hammer hit him high in the left shoulder, knocking him backwards into the wall. Dazed, he felt strong hands grab him, quickly finding himself face down on the back seat. Another body pressing him down into the fabric. There was a jerk as Kermit hit the gas, propelling them from the alley like a rocket.  
  
A few fast, sharp turns later, and the ride settled into a less unnerving pace. Peter finally moved, letting Gary struggle into a sitting position. He kept a hand pressed against his shoulder, trying to slow the blood flow. Gradually, it dawned on him that Kermit was not alone in the front seat.   
  
"M-Mr. Cain?" he gasped.  
  
"The one and only," Peter quipped. He gently stripped the shirt down far enough to bare Gary's wound. "Want to tell me what the hell you were doing back there?"  
  
Gary winced as Peter pressed a balled up handkerchief against his shoulder. "Keeping you alive?" he grated out.   
  
"That's what I'm supposed to be doing for you!" the ex-cop snapped. "Or have you forgotten that?"  
  
"N-no, I haven't . . . forgotten anything. But you have," Gary told him, his voice growing weaker. He turned with a gaze full of pain and determination. "I'm not . . . letting anyone die . . . because of . . . of me."  
  
****************  
  
He was laying on something soft and warm. And his shoulder hurt. When had he fallen asleep? How long? Why was it so hard to open his eyes? He had a dim recollection of doctors, bright lights, and a lot of noise. Then being helped back into Kermit's car. The rest was a blank. A small moan escaped his lips as he tried to raise his head. Immediately, a hand slid under his head and something was pressed against his lips. A soft voice urged him to drink. Obediently, Gary drank the bitter liquid without protest. Seconds later, he drifted back to unconsciousness.  
  
Sometime later, he awoke again, still hurting, but able to think more clearly. He had been shot. Again. This was getting to be a bad habit. 'Four years,' he thought. 'A concussion or two, a few broken bones, loads of bruises, even blindness. Until this year, no bullets'. Now, he had been shot three times in as many days. Not good.  
  
"You are feeling better, Mr. Hobson?" the soft voice from before asked him. Gary finally pried his eyes open enough to recognize Peter's father.   
  
"Yeah," he whispered weakly. "Kinda . . . tired. Wh-where . . .?"  
  
"In what Peter tells me is a 'safe' house," Kwai Chang replied. "The bullet passed through, but you have lost much blood. We must . . . replace the fluids your body requires. Drink." He pressed another cup to Gary's mouth. Anticipating more of the bitter potion, Gary was pleasantly surprised. It was chicken soup! "You also require . . . nourishment."  
  
"Thank you," Gary mumbled when he had finished. "Is . . . is everyone . . . okay?"  
  
"We are all . . . uninjured, thanks to you," the older man replied. "However, Peter is very . . .angry with you. He has spent the time you have been unconscious . . . 'delegating'(?) people to do things based on what he reads in the paper you carry."   
  
Gary nodded weakly, acknowledging the unspoken questions. "I'll . . . um . . . I'll talk to him," he promised. "H-how long . . .?"  
  
"Six hours," Peter answered from the doorway. " If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll lock you so far under the jail, they won't find you 'til Armageddon! What did you think you were doing back there? I'm . . . we are supposed to protect you! Not the other way around! You keep your head down and your butt covered! Understand?" He lunged forward as Gary attempted to sit up. "Whoa! Where do you think you're going?"  
  
"Some . . . somewhere else," Gary replied through gritted teeth. He shot Peter an angry glare. "I thought you understood! This is who I am! What I do! I've b-been through hell and . . . and back a thousand times because of this! D-don't expect me to . . . to change just because s-someone tells me it's f-for my own good!" Stubbornly, he swung his legs around until he was sitting on the side of the bed. A move that left his head spinning. When the room finally took up a stationary position, he noticed that he was clad only in boxers. "Could I have . . . my clothes back?"  
  
"Later," Peter replied tersely. "When you can stand without falling flat of your face! Now, I've just spent the last four hours sending Kermit and others running all over town to do what you have apparently made a point of doing on your lonesome. Only to find that a lot of it can't be done without triggering something else! And the damned headlines keep changing faster than we can keep up with them! Do you really put up with this crap on a daily basis?"  
  
"Pr-pretty much," Gary admitted sullenly. "It's . . . it's kinda like dominoes, sometimes. You can't stop the plane that's gonna crash from taking off until you save the child hit by the speeding car. Or you stop the r-right car from . . . getting on the expressway, you save twenty lives. It . . . it really is about . . . about being in the r-right place at the right . . . the right time. Um. I think . . . I think I should . . ." The elder Cain eased him back onto the bed. "Thanks," he muttered sleepily.   
  
"You must rest, now," Kwai Chang admonished gently. "We will see that all is made well." He pulled the blanket back up to Gary's chin as the younger man nodded once and closed his eyes. Convinced that his patient was once more asleep, Cain led his son from the room. "Please. Try not to upset him again. He is still very weak, and disoriented. Now, if you are able, tell me about this . . . paper."  
  
*****************  
  
"Hobson?" Someone gave his good shoulder a gentle shake. "Hobson? Gary? C'mon! We need to talk!" that same someone whispered urgently. "Please! We're gonna lose this one!"  
  
"Wha . . . Lose wha'. . . who?" He fought his way past Cain's last potion, trying to comprehend what Peter was saying. "Wh-what've ya got?"  
  
"Thirty year old black female," the younger Cain reported. "Getting ready for a high dive off the Randolph Building."  
  
Gary shot him a disgusted look. "That sounded like she's already a statistic," he snorted drowsily as he struggled to sit up. "What's her name? Why is she doing this? Could I have my pants, please?"  
  
"Virginia Dawson, paralegal secretary," he elaborated. "Her boyfriend dumped her, or something. And I just need your advice. Your not going anywhere!"  
  
Wordlessly, Gary flung aside the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He closed his eyes and clutched tightly at the mattress as the room did a barrel roll. As soon as the structural gymnastics slowed to bearable limits, he began looking around for his clothes. Spying a closet, he decided that was his best bet.  
  
"Aren't you listening to me, Hobson?" Peter snapped, his voice rising. " You can't go out there! There are news crews on the scene already! It'll be like painting a bull's eye on your forehead! Just tell us what you would do to bring her down. We can pass it on to the police psychiatrist, who is also on the scene . . ."  
  
"And apparently isn't having much luck," Gary reminded him. Bingo! His pants and jacket were neatly arranged on hangers. He ruefully fingered the hole in the dark leather, but at least it was still wearable. "I can't help her from here. I have to talk with, not about her." Shoes, where were his shoes? Under the bed. He took his things back to the bed and began pulling them on, despite Cain's almost physical protests. "I don't know what I'll say or do that your guys can't. I never know how I'll handle something like this 'til I'm doing it. You wouldn't happen to have a shirt my size handy? How long has she been up there?"  
  
"An hour," Peter admitted, conceding defeat. He pulled a box out of the bottom of the closet and handed it to Hobson. It held a button-up long sleeved flannel shirt. "Pop's out there, too. Usually, he can charm the bees into giving up the honey. But, she's not buying it. She is one hard, bitter, angry woman."  
  
"Then we're wasting time," Gary told him as he finished dressing. Much as he hated it, he had to let Peter tie his shoe laces. He just couldn't get his arm to co-operate. They improvised a sling out of one of the pillow cases and took off.  
  
***************  
  
It took some doing, but Peter and Gary managed to make it to the roof unseen by the press. They had been forced to take the last three floors by stairs, however. By the time they reached the roof, Gary's strength was flagging. For some reason, he wasn't surprised when Kwai Chang Cain opened the door to the roof and helped him the last few feet. The Shambala Master guided him over to a make-shift seat.  
  
"It is good you are here," he told his patient. "I believe . . . the only reason she has not jumped, is because the . . . 'boyfriend' has not yet arrived."  
  
"He's not . . . going to," Gary huffed. "He's on a . . . a plane to Aruba . . . with his new girl. Where is sh . . .?"  
  
"Hobson? What the hell are you doing here?" Gary groaned audibly at the familiar voice. Detective Paul Armstrong strode briskly into view. "Word is you're under police protection. Again."  
  
"Good to . . . see you, too, Armstrong," Gary managed a pained smile. "How's the family?"  
  
"Just answer the question, Hobson."  
  
"Why do you think I'm here? To help." If only the skyline would settle down. "I . . . I've had a little experience."  
  
"I can just bet you have," another voice snorted derisively. "I've heard of you, Mr Hobson. You seem to be an expert on everything! Now you're a psychiatrist? What are your qualifications?"  
  
Puzzled, Gary looked up at the belligerently offensive man. "I run a bar," he replied evenly. "I listen to people. I don't analyze or . . . or categorize. I'm just . . . someone to talk to."  
  
"And that approach has worked . . . how many times?"  
  
"All total or just this year?"  
  
"Oh," the psychiatrist sneered, "let's make it easy. Just the last six months."  
  
Gary looked away for a moment as he ran all the faces through his mind. "Ten. No, twelve. I forgot the pact those two kids made last July." He looked back to the 'expert'. "You? Successfully, that is."  
  
Stunned, the police consultant stared at him as if he had grown another head. "That's not possible," he accused. "I'd have heard if that many suicides had been attempted. I've only been called out for six this year."  
  
"Not all suicides want to be stopped," Gary told him softly. "Those are the ones you never know about 'til it's all over." He held his good hand out to Peter for assistance. "What's your stake in this Paul? Does suicide fall under your jurisdiction?"  
  
"Technically, no," the black detective responded with a shake of his head. "She's my wife's cousin. They're closer than sister's. First we knew of this was Griffin's call that she was headed for the roof. Why do I get the feeling you had a hand in that?"  
  
"Only indirectly," Hobson told him as they walked slowly towards the young woman perched precariously on the ledge. "Griffin is one of my keepers."  
  
Armstrong took in his battered and weakened condition with a skeptical look. "Not his fault," Gary hastened to add. "I just . . . never mind." He pointed at some pipes coming out of the roof a few feet from where Virginia was sitting. "I better go on alone from here. Don't wanna . . . upset her." He looked up at a familiar sound in the distance. "Um, anyone gotta hat I can borrow?" he asked, ducking his head and pointing up at the approaching news 'copter.  
  
Armstrong cursed, yelling into his radio to get that 'copter out of the area! Gary kept his head down until someone produced a battered Cubs cap. It had a long enough bill to hide his features from the air. Satisfied that he had some small measure of anonymity, Gary continued on.   
  
"Twelve, huh?" Armstrong called after him. "How'd you do it?"  
  
"I donno," Gary called back. "Watch and listen. Maybe you can tell me!" He approached the agitated woman cautiously.  
  
"Just back off!" Virginia snapped. "I don't want anymore quacks tryin' to mess with my head!"  
  
Gary stopped next to the pipes. "I'm not a doctor," he told her. "Or a cop. You mind if I sit down here?" He indicated the rooftop at the base of the pipes. "I'm . . . not exactly up to par today."  
  
Still suspicious, she considered his request. Unless he was Superman, there was no way he could stop her from there. And he was obviously having trouble with that arm. She gave him a curt nod. Thankfully, Gary eased himself down with his back to the warm pipes.  
  
"So. Who are you?" she asked, curiosity winning out.  
  
"Just a guy," he shrugged, wincing at the sharp stab of pain that ill advised move caused. "My name's Gary. I . . . um . . . I run a bar over on Illinois."  
  
"A bartender?" she cried, incredulous. "What? They think I should just get plastered and forget my problems?"  
  
Gary just pulled a face and shook his head. "I don't recommend that, Ms Dawson," he replied. "You only end up with a monster headache the next morning and a mouth that tastes like a litter box. Talkin's easier, cheaper, and a lot less painful."  
  
"Depends on the subject."  
  
"Well, personally," Gary sighed, "I think it's a crappy subject, but let's talk about exes. You first."  
  
"Why me? You brought it up!"  
  
"I'm not the one sitting on a ledge, getting ready to bungee jump without a rope," Gary pointed out. "Call me crazy, and a lot of people have, but that makes your situation just a tad more urgent."   
  
Confused by his casual tone, Virginia hesitantly told him about the disastrous surprise party she had thrown for her fiancé the night before. Only to have him show up with another woman on his arms. In front of everyone, he had dumped her! He had even tried to make it out to be her fault!  
  
"Jeez!" Gary exclaimed sympathetically. "What a charmer! How did you ever get hooked up with a creep like that?"  
  
She shot him a scathing look. "Met him at a bar."  
  
"Ouch! So, what happened next?"  
  
"He told me he was gonna marry this little tramp he'd known for less than a week," she told him. "And asked me . . . asked me for my blessing! I was never so . . . humiliated in my life! I told him I hoped he and the little hussy were very happy together, and had many beautiful children, before the devil rose up and took him straight to hell!"  
  
"Then you went home and brooded about it all night," Gary finished for her. At her teary look, he just shrugged again, forgetting about his wound . . . again. She noticed his grimace of pain, this time, her anger beginning to be replaced by a wary look of concern. He rushed ahead, trying to divert her interest. "Ah, my turn I guess." He quickly told her how Marcia had dumped him. How he had found out, months later, that it was for his ex-boss. And how he had been invited for the wedding . . . where she didn't show. "So, we both lost out," he finished. "And it hurt. I think what hurt most was, there was no warning. Just . . . blam! The door's slammed in your face, and you have no idea why!"  
  
"Exactly! And you keep thinking it was you who did something wrong," she went on excitedly. "But, it was them all the time. They were the ones who couldn't commit to a lasting relationship. Not us! God! That makes me feel so . . . so clean! You have no idea how cheap that bastard made me . . ." She noticed that Gary was no longer looking at her. His eyes were closed, and it seemed to take a lot of effort to keep his head up. Even from that distance, she could see his face had taken on an unhealthy pallor, his features bathed with a fine sheen of sweat. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Y-yeah. Well . . . not really." He was having trouble keeping his head raised. Must be more out of it than he'd thought. The first he knew she was beside him was when she pulled back his shirt and jacket to reveal a blood soaked bandage. When had he done that? he wondered absently. "I guess . . . guess I could use . . ."  
  
"A little help over here?" she called to the approaching men. "This guy's hurt bad! What the hell kinda game are you playing, sending an injured man to talk down a potential suicide! How could you people put him at risk like that?" A weak tug at her sleeve interrupted her tirade. She looked down to see Gary smiling back at her, eyes twinkling.  
  
"Worked, didn't it?" he asked in a barely audible mumble.  
  
"Yes, damn you," she laughed. "It did. Who's lame brained idea was it anyway?"  
  
"Mine."  
  
"Why? Why would you care? You don't even know me!"  
  
"I do, now."  
  
********************  
  
"Hey! Gary! Been awhile! Carter told me he'd seen you the other day," Dr Green prattled as he peeled back the pressure bandage. "Um . . . hmm! Just missed the artery, but that vein has a nasty little hole in it. How'd it happen?"  
  
"Sneaking out the back door of the . . . Get your mind out of the gutter, Doc. It wasn't like that!"  
  
"Too bad," Green smirked. "We keep hoping you wouldn't be in here so much if you'd just get a life."  
  
"I have a 'life', thank you very much," Gary grumbled good naturedly. "It's just . . . not your . . . average kinda 'life'."  
  
"Yeah? Well I hope you end up with better than 'average' life insurance! At this rate, you're gonna need it!"  
  
**********************  
  
Peter and his father were waiting by the front desk when they wheeled him out. They appeared deep in conversation with Det Griffin until Peter spotted him and smiled.  
  
"I wish you'd reconsider," Dr Green was saying. "You've lost a lot of blood and . . ."  
  
"It's just not safe, Doc," Gary repeated, for about the tenth time. "I told you what the situation is. Can't we just leave it at that?"  
  
"You're not leaving me much choice," Dr Green sighed. "Just. . . don't exert yourself for the next few days, keep the wound clean and dry, and take those pain meds! Oh yeah, and tell your friends to bring you to us first, next time."  
  
"Next time?" Gary half turned to look at him. "You have a lot of confidence in me, Doc."  
  
Dr. Green smiled tiredly. "Yeah, I do," he replied. "We'll keep a room empty for you."  
  
"Good news, Gary," Peter reported as he grew closer. "The Grand Jury selection was completed an hour ago. They convene at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. The assistant DA is sending someone to go over your testimony with you tonight. Feel up to it?"  
  
Gary remembered at the last second not to shrug this time. "Sure," he replied. "Anybody I know?"  
  
"They didn't say," Kermit shrugged, pushing his dark glasses back in place. Did he ever take those off? Gary had yet to see him without them. "We're to meet them at the next safe house. At this rate, we'll run out of hiding places before we can get you on the stand."  
  
"Don't bet on it," Gary mumbled under his breath.   
  
**********************  
  
Gary felt more tired than he had felt in a long time. He sat propped up in bed, his left arm strapped down over the bandages that covered his ribs. Dr. Green had been adamant about his not using that arm. Following doctor's orders with a little too much enthusiasm, in Gary's opinion, Peter had practically force fed him his pain meds less than an hour ago. Then, they had gone over how to handle the last two headlines. Gary hoped everything went well for Kermit.  
  
"Ready for some company?" Peter asked from the doorway.  
  
"Hmm? Um . . . sure," he mumbled drowsily. He rubbed his good hand vigorously over his face, in an effort to wake up. "Who . . .? Oh."  
  
"You look terrible Hobson," Toni Brigatti remarked. "How do you feel?"  
  
The look on Gary's face was . . . the closest description Peter could think of was . . . 'wary'. There was hope, joy, fear, pain . . . and something else Peter couldn't quite put his finger on. Then he was looking away. At the covers, the wall . . . anywhere but the pretty detective.  
  
"I'm . . . ahm . . . I'm okay, Brigatti," he replied hesitantly. "You?"  
  
"Tired of seeing your face every time an ambulance goes by. Can't you stay out of trouble just one day?" she complained bitterly. "Do you absolutely have to jump in front of every bullet fired in the city limits?"  
  
"I-it's not like that . . ." he began.  
  
"Well, that's what it sounds like!" she snapped. "Don't you have any survival instincts at all? Am I gonna get a call one of these days to come down and ID what's left of you? Don't you ever once consider what your death could mean . . . to . . . to your family? Your friends?"  
  
So much for the hope and joy, Peter sighed. Hobson looked like Virginia Dawson had when she'd been poised on the ledge. He was about to step in to defend the poor guy, then . . .  
  
"All the time," he mumbled in a sad monotone. "Do you?"  
  
"What? What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"You're a cop. You have just as much chance of getting hurt or k . . ." he licked his lips nervously, "killed . . . as I do." He finally looked up to meet her gaze with tired, sad eyes. "Do you let that stop you?"  
  
"That's different," she shrugged. "Like you said . . . I'm a cop. What does that have to . . ."  
  
"And just because I'm not a cop," Gary interrupted her, "I'm supposed to just . . . just sit back and do nothing when people are about to die? When I'm right there? Do . . . do I stop caring just because I'm not trained, or . . . or p-paid to help?" He paused to catch his breath, his good hand up to silence her protests. "You're a good cop, Brigatti. A damned good one. You're tough as nails, think fast, and you're not afraid to think for yourself.. You have good instincts, and you trust them. Well, I have instincts, too. Trust me. That's all I've ever asked," he pleaded in a tired voice. "Just . . . trust me."  
  
Peter felt like an intruder. But, for the life of him, he could not bring himself to leave. It was almost as if a spell of invisibility had been woven around him. To move or speak would break that spell, and leave all of them vulnerable. Besides, Hobson needed someone in his corner.  
  
Toni Brigatti felt . . . confused. She had not intended to tear into Gary like that. But seeing him all battered, bruised, and pale as a ghost . . . It frightened her. And she did not take well to being that scared. It was just another reminder of just how fragile life was. How quickly it could be snuffed out. What scared her most of all was the depths to which that fear ran when it came to this one . . . crazy . . . enigmatic . . . sweet man. It frightened her that she cared so much! She opened her mouth to say . . . something . . . when they were interrupted by a knock on the door.  
  
A blonde cop poked his head in. "Is it safe?" Det Winslow asked cautiously. Catching sight of Brigatti's stony visage, then Hobson . . . Maybe he should've barged in sooner. "Um, Ms Stone is here. You ready to talk to her, Hobson?"  
  
"Sure," Gary shrugged in a dispirited tone. "Why not?"  
  
Winslow stepped aside to admit a tall, slender brunette, carrying a briefcase. "Why is it every time I see you," Rachel Stone asked, "guns are involved?"  
  
"Occupational hazard?" Gary quipped half heartedly.   
  
"You're a bartender, Mr Hobson," she reminded him. "Aside from the occasional hold up, getting shot isn't in your job description." She snapped open the briefcase and laid out a folder and a tape recorder. She looked him over carefully. "If you're feeling up to it, I'd like to go over some of the questions we'll be asking tomorrow. As well as what the defense will be likely to throw at us."  
  
"S-sure," he stammered. He shot Peter a pleading look, nodding his head at Brigatti. "Do you mind?"  
  
Peter took the petite brunette by the arm and turned her towards the door. "Let's let them have a little privacy," he suggested.  
  
"Privacy?" Brigatti shot him a bewildered look as the door closed behind them. "He's just giving a deposition. Someone'll need to witness..."  
  
"Winslow can witness it," Cain reminded her. "You may be just a little too close to the situation."  
  
She shook her arm loose, rounding on him with a hostile glare . "And just what is that supposed to mean?"  
  
Peter looked around at his father and Kermit before leading her into the tiny kitchen. Hobson had been handed enough humiliation for one day.  
  
"Do you have any idea what he's going through right now? For the third time in less than five years, he's running for his life. All because he cared enough to try to keep someone else alive!" he reminded her. "Now, I've only been hangin' around him for a few days. But, I've apparently gotten to know him better than the people he wants to trust the most. Because they refuse to trust him. That guy just laid his heart open to you, even after you'd cut him off at the knees!"  
  
"Just how well do you think you know Gary Hobson!" she hissed. "You've . . . what . . . rode around with him for a coupla days? While he was out getting beaten and shot? That makes you an expert on what he thinks and feels?" The fiery detective stepped so close their noses almost touched. "I know him! At least as well as anyone can. He's a chronic do-gooder. He's always laying his life on the line for people he doesn't even know! Or he's up to his neck in one kind of trouble or another. And it drives . . . me . . . nuts!"  
  
"So you just waltz right into his sickroom, without even to waiting to close the door," Cain remarked acidly, "without even looking to see if you were alone . . . and you rip him to shreds. You . . . tore . . . him . . . to pieces. And everyone in the next room could here every . . . word," he added coldly. "I have to agree with everything he said in there. And it's not just two guys sticking together. Why should he stop caring, and wanting to help people just because it's inconvenient for you?"   
  
Stunned, Brigatti backed down. Everyone . . .? No wonder Winslow had been so hesitant. 'Is it safe?' he had asked. Oh, God! Her face turned a brilliant scarlet . Then . . . "Oh, my God! He knew they could . . . And he just . . ." She turned, burying her face in her hands. "No wonder he looked so . . . What do I . . . How do I fix this?"  
  
"Talk to him! Don't scold him. He's not some 'wet behind the ears' kid! He's a man! A man who's been dying to talk to you and Armstrong about that Scanlon fiasco since it ended. He wants to put it behind him, but he can't. And he can't bring himself to bring it up, because he's afraid of pushing you both away. Of destroying something that he's not sure he even has, yet."   
  
Suddenly wary, she lowered her hands and met his steady gaze. "What do you mean?"  
  
"My dad has been talking to everyone that knows anything about him," Peter told her. "His partner is the closest friend he's got right now. His best male friend got married and moved back to LA. Aside from those two and his parents, he has no personal relationships. He can count the number of friends he has in this city on one hand and still hold onto a coffee cup. He can't even count the number of people he's helped. Most of them don't even bother with a 'thank you'. Those are rare. You and Armstrong never even thanked him for saving your lives, did you? After you and every other cop in the city branded him delusional, and a murderer, he still saved your lives. How many men in his position would have even dared to come out of hiding long enough to realize the danger you two were in? Let alone risk his life for you? Doesn't that tell you anything?" He took both her hands in his. "He never . . . blamed you. He's got a heart bigger than this whole freakin' city and he just wants to forgive . . . and be forgiven."  
  
"Fo-forgiven? What . . .?"  
  
They were interrupted by a commotion in the next room. Exchanging a puzzled look, they rushed to see what was going on. Gary was shoving his way past Stone and Winslow, while struggling into his shirt. He was almost in a panic as he told Kermit to 'just call her!'  
  
"What's going on here?" Brigatti asked. She stepped up to Gary and took his good arm. "Talk to me, Gary! What's wrong?"  
  
"Just call McGinty's," he begged. "Tell Marissa to go up to my loft and stay there! She's not to leave 'til we . . . I get there! Please!"  
  
Kermit snatched out his cell phone and started dialing the number Gary rattled off to him. Meanwhile, Peter took Stone aside and asked how this had all started.  
  
"I have no idea," she snapped in frustration. "One minute we're going over his testimony, he glances down for a second and just . . . freezes. The next, he's tossing covers everywhere and pulling on his pants! Telling us that someone named Marissa is in danger. He . . . he was frantic!"  
  
Kermit spoke hurriedly into the phone, trying to relay Gary's instructions. "She what? Wait. How long . . . I'll tell him. Thanks. No. Don't worry, we'll take care of everything." He closed the flip phone with a snap. "She walked out the door ten minutes ago. Headed home."  
  
"She's not gonna make it," Gary said in a voice barely above a whisper . "She's not gonna . . . They've got her already." He turned panic stricken eyes on Peter and Brigatti. "Help me! Please! They'll kill her if we don't . . .!"  
  
At that point, Kermit's cell phone shrilled. "Yo." He shot Gary a startled look. "Yeah. Patch it through." He handed the phone to the young barkeeper. "For you."  
  
Trembling, Gary held the phone up to his ear. "H-Hobson. Yes. Is she okay? Let me talk. . . No! You let me talk to her or you can go to . . . Marissa? Have they . . . No, no. Don't worry. I-it'll be . . . Don't you dare lay another hand on her!" He closed his eyes, listening with a hopeless expression on his face. "No. Not there. United Center. Yes, I know. Back stage at ten o'clock. Because I want to be sure she gets home safe! Don't worry, I'll be there."  
  
He quickly disconnected, then keyed in information. "Chicago. United Center. Thank you . . . Yes! This is Gary Hobson. I need to talk to Mr Chandler. I know! Please, just . . . just tell him it's the guy from the park, and it's urgent. Thank you."  
  
As Gary waited for his party, Kermit drew Peter and his father aside. "How did he know?" he asked. "About the kidnapping, I mean?"  
  
"How does he usually know," Peter sighed. "The . . . you know." He shot a warning glance towards Winslow, Brigatti and Stone.  
  
"But he doesn't have it!" the ex-spy hissed. "It's out in the car!"  
  
*************************  
  
Gary glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Everything was ready . . . he hoped. There were so many things that could go wrong. Most of Dusty's road crew had been replaced by undercover cops. It hadn't been easy, pulling in that many people on such short notice, but between them, the three cops had managed a small miracle. Gary had even removed the straps holding his arm in place. He might need both hands.  
  
As he glanced at his watch . . . again, a hand landed heavily on his good shoulder. Gary jumped sideways as his heart slammed up into his throat.  
  
"Whoa, son," Earl drawled. "You're jumpier than grease on a hot skillet. Dusty wants to know if you need anything else."  
  
"N-no, thanks," Gary assured him. "You . . . you've all been great. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."  
  
"It's the least we could do," the drummer replied. "We still owe you for that thing in the park the other day."  
  
"Let's . . . let's just call it square," Gary ginned nervously. "Almost time. You'd better get back on stage. Good luck."  
  
"Double that." The rangy drummer sauntered towards the sound of thousands of voices chanting: 'Dusty! Dusty! Dusty!' at the top of their lungs.  
  
Gary saw someone moving at the far end of the cavernous backstage area. . . and there she was. Looking frightened but strong. A dark suited Caucasian stood on either side of her. Probably hired muscle. "This is it," he said into the mike concealed under the bandages near his collar. Kermit had called in Blake to put Gary's injuries to work for them. The whole arrangement was hidden under the top two layers. "Sung's not with them."  
  
Swallowing down his fear, Gary started towards the middle of the room. Spying him, the two men guided Marissa in the same direction. It seemed to take forever to cover the twenty or so feet to the center of the room. All the while, the young hero kept up a mumbled commentary describing the two men. Just in case.  
  
As soon as they were close enough, Gary reached out and drew Marissa into a breath taking hug. Just as quickly, he let her go, mumbling, "You're okay, now. Everything's okay. Um, just keep walking straight ahead ten paces. Just do it, Marissa. Please? Trust me?"  
  
"What about you, Gary?" she asked, her voice just as frightened as he felt. "What's going to happen to you?"  
  
Looking at the two men, Gary had an idea what they had planned for him. "I'll be okay, Marissa," he lied. "They just . . . just want to talk to me . . . alone. Now, go on. I'll be right back."  
  
Marissa heard the lie in his voice, and knew it was for her sake. Suddenly, she was more afraid than she had been when they first grabbed her. A single tear fell down her cheek as she clutched Gary's jacketed arm.   
  
"Don't do this!" she pleaded hoarsely. "Just . . . don't. We can call for help. We can . . . we can run! Please, Gary!"  
  
Casting a troubled glance at the two hired thugs, Gary gently pried her fingers loose. "I have to, Marissa," he told her gently. "I have to, or I'll be running the rest of my life. Now, go on. We found Riley, and he's at the vet. Someone will take you to him. Go on. It'll be okay."  
  
"So why don't I believe you, Gary Hobson?" she wept.  
  
"You don't have to believe me," he sighed. "Just . . . have faith in me."  
  
It almost killed him to turn his back on her and leave her standing there. Looking lost and alone. His only comfort, as he walked away with the two men, was in knowing it would not be for long. Winslow was waiting to take her home.  
  
********************  
  
They led him out to a waiting limo. Ten feet away, the two stopped, indicating silently that Gary should continue without them. At his questioning look, the taller of the two shrugged. "We're just the delivery boys," he said. "We deliver the girl. Then we deliver you. Everything handled through e-mail." He suddenly grinned. "Ain't technology grand?"  
  
"Wonderful," Gary sighed as he turned towards the car. "I'm a dead man."  
  
As Gary drew closer to the long black car, the back window slid down. A familiar, glacial gaze stared back at him. The man from the warehouse. The one with the butterfly knife and the dead eyes.  
  
"I . . . ahm . . . I take it that you're . . . Mr. Sung?" Gary stammered nervously.  
  
"You are correct, Mr. Hobson," the smooth voiced oriental acknowledged. "You have been a remarkably hard man to find. I have to wonder at your ability to stay two steps ahead of us. Do you, perhaps, have an informant? Is that how you knew about our little . . . surprise . . . at the warehouse?"  
  
Standing just out of arms reach, Gary glanced around nervously. "I don't know what you're talking about," he told the gangster. "I was there to . . ."  
  
"Find a lost pet. Yes, that is what you told me." He snapped his fingers. Instantly, the driver popped out, causing a startled Gary to step back a couple of paces. He stopped at the sight of a big, ugly looking gun. The driver reached with his empty hand to open the back door. "Get in, Mr Hobson."  
  
"No, I . . . ah . . . I don't think so," Gary replied, taking another cautious step back. "S-somehow, I don't see that as being very healthy."  
  
"It is not a request." Mr Sung swung his legs out and stood up, indicating the now empty back seat. "Get in."  
  
Gary backed up another couple of steps. Then froze as the silenced gun was aimed straight at him. "No," he repeated in a stronger voice. "You intend to kill me anyway. Don't you. Well, you'll have to catch me first!" He turned on his foot and sprinted for the back door. Something plucked at his right ear as he ducked under the grasp of one of the rent-a-thugs. The big man gave a grunt, then collapsed. Another few feet and he was turning the corner. Pain scored across his ribs as his lungs heaved for more air, his heart beating faster than Earl's drums. A wave of dizziness put his back to the wall as he fought for control. "Um, guys?" he gasped into the hidden mike. "A, um, a little . . . help . . . would be . . . nice."  
  
Stone chips flew into his face as a bullet impacted just inches from his head! Sh--! Sung must have set more men on this side! Gary hunched down and practically dove for the back door. Something stung his eyes, blinding him as he flung the door open. Blinking rapidly, Gary stumbled through the back stage area, groping blindly for a way out. "Now would be . . . a good time," he repeated.   
  
His right hand found a stair rail. Eyes still blurred by tears and pain, Gary groped his way up the steps and behind a curtain. Noise and lights assailed him . . . as he stepped out on stage. It was a moment or two before the cheering audience noticed the figure staggering blindly behind the band stand. Dusty turned to see what the people in the back were pointing at, never missing a beat of 'When Did You Stop Loving Me'. He nodded at one of his fiddle players, who set his instrument down to go help Gary.   
  
At the same moment, Sung and company emerged from both wings, guns waving. And the lights went out. Gary tripped over something, he couldn't be sure what, landing heavily on his left side. 'Oh, Christ,' he thought, as pain lanced through his shoulder. 'Not good. I've sprung another leak.'  
  
Stunned, Gary lay where he was as pandemonium seemed to break out all around him. There were flashes of gunfire, assorted grunts, groans, and curses. And something landed with considerable force, and noise, on Gary's left arm. His strangled cry was lost in the general din, as he felt something snap.   
  
Minutes later, when order was finally restored, and the lights turned back on, most of the thugs were in custody. The audience cheered to see Dusty holding one thug in a sleeper hold, with Earl kneeling on another.  
  
Of the mystery man who had triggered the whole fandango, there was no sign.   
  
***************  
  
The auditorium was cleared. The captured thugs had all been taken down to the local precinct. And still no sigh of Hobson. Or Sung. Not good.  
  
"Where could he be?" Brigatti growled for the hundredth time. She swept a stubborn lock of hair behind her left ear, a nervous habit.  
  
"Brigatti!" Peter called. "Over here!" He was kneeling by a fallen lighting arrangement. Expecting the worst, Brigatti did not know whether to be relieved or alarmed. There was no body under the tangled mess. Just a small puddle of blood, no bigger than her hand.  
  
****************  
  
It was all Gary could do to stay on his feet as he was dragged along by the man with dead eyes. His knees kept wanting to buckle at every step. Every time he stumbled, it sent pain lancing through his entire left side like a scalding wave. His head hurt, and it was still hard to focus. Why wouldn't the son of a b---- just shoot him and get it over with!  
  
"I . . . I can't," he gasped, stumbling to a halt for the third time. "I can't go . . . What do you . . . want from . . . me?"  
  
"Right now? A hostage," Sung replied calmly. "So long as I have you, I have leverage."  
  
"S-some leverage," Gary snorted in a slightly hysterical laugh. "I've been shot, beaten, shot again, now my wounds are . . . are leaking and my arm is . . . is broken! The only reason . . . I've g-gotten . . . this far is . . . you dragging me. We're not talking . . . Olympic material . . . pal." He leaned heavily on the alley wall and slid slowly to the ground. "You wanna kill me . . . I can't s-stop you. But I can't go . . . another step."  
  
Frustrated, Sung began to pace. The first sign of emotion Gary had seen him exhibit. "Who do you work for, Mr Hobson? What kind of agency uses a total innocent like you?"  
  
"P-pardon me? You think I'm a . . . F-Fed . . . or something? I'm a barkeeper! I run a . . . a sports bar and a restaurant! You want . . . a Rusty Nail . . . I'm your guy. You . . . you want Elliot Ness . . . try the phone book! I'm jus . . . just a guy . . . who wants to . . . to wake up, and find . . . that this has all . . . all been a bad . . . a bad dream."  
  
Sung studied his young prisoner closely. He had always prided himself on his ability to read people. How could he have misread this desperate young man so badly?  
  
"You were truly there because of a cat?" he asked incredulously as he leveled his gun at Gary's head. "What a stupid reason to die!"  
  
'This is it,' Gary thought, closing his eyes and turning his head. 'No more reprieves.'  
  
"Mroowwrr!"  
  
Something orange and yellow flashed by Gary and straight into Sung's face! The gangster threw up his arm to ward off the attack, flinging the enraged cat over his shoulder. A clawed foot snagged the material of his jacket and hung on. Sung could not get a grip on the miniature dervish. It torn into his clothes, his face, the flesh of his hands . . . then . . . it was gone. Dazed and bewildered, he looked around for his tiny attacker, forgetting his intended victim for the moment. When he again remembered, he was not really surprised to find that Hobson had taken the opportunity to escape. No problem. As he had said himself, he could not go very far.  
  
**************  
  
Gary barely made it as far as the next block. Exhausted, he tried to read the street sign above his head. Og something. Ogden Ave, and . . . what? Jackson. Ogden Ave and Jackson Blvd. He was less than a block away from the Expressway. Cook County General was just on the other side. If only he could make it that far . . . Mustering the last of his reserves, Gary pushed himself erect. He would make it, he decided. Come hell or high water, he would make it. As he staggered towards the bright lights of the Expressway, he wondered where his protectors had gotten off to.  
  
****************  
  
"They stopped talking again!" Blake groaned. "We should've added a tracker! The last coherent sound I got, Hobson mumbled something about Ogden." He pressed the headphones against his ears, trying to hear better. "He doesn't sound good at all," he told Kermit. "He's having a hard time breathing, and he keeps falling down. Wait! I hear cars. Moving fast. The Expressway?" He looked up at the detective. "Could he be heading for the Eisenhower Expressway?"  
  
Kermit just shook his head and grinned. "Just like a homing pigeon," he laughed, pointing at the map. He pulled out his radio. "Peter? Brigatti? Our boy is headed for his second home. He's somewhere between here and Cook County General. Let's roll."  
  
****************  
  
Gary was on the pedestrian overpass. He had no recollection of how he got there. His mind kept picking the oddest times to go blank. Where had he . . . Oh. Yeah. Cook County. He could see the signs from here. Now, if he could just remember . . . His arm? Shoulder? Whatever. He was almost there.  
  
*****************  
  
The blare of a car horn brought Gary back to awareness. A dark green minivan just missed him by a hair. The wind from the speeding vehicle sent him staggering the rest of the way across the Parkway. Almost there. Just a few more yards. Where was he going again? Hospital. Right. Get the arm looked at. Go home. Home. Long way from home. 'Home . . . where my thoughts are straying. Home . . . where my music's playing.' Home. Get fixed up and go home. 'I'm on my way back home . . . gonna fly . . . ' No. No flying. Not tonight. Gotta get fixed up first. Can't fly with a busted wing. Busted. Someone was supposed to get busted. Who . . .?  
  
"You are a most tenacious man Mr Hobson."  
  
Awwwnoo!  
  
Gary wrapped his good arm around a lamp post. It was all that kept him from hitting the hard, cold pavement. He just stood there on rubbery legs. Past caring if Sung pulled the trigger or not. He was tired. So tired that his ears were ringing. He couldn't see straight. Everything kept moving while he tried to just . . . stand . . . still.   
  
"Go 'way," he mumbled, leaning his head against the cold metal. "Jus' go 'way. Bad dream. Should . . . shoulda checked date on . . . on the mayonnaise."  
  
"Sorry, Mr Hobson," Sung chuckled dryly. "I'm not just a nightmare born of indigestion. I'm all too real."  
  
"Noo," Gary crooned. "Not real. Fever dream. Had Chicken Pox, last week. Donno. I'll just . . . wake up. Poof! You're gone!" He giggled hysterically. "Poof!" His knees couldn't hold him in one place any longer. He either had to keep moving or sit down. Reluctantly, he let go of the lamp post; staggering once more towards the lights of the ER.   
  
"Not that way, Mr Hobson," Sung commanded. "We are going this way." He waved his gun back towards the Parkway. "Too many people around."  
  
" 'xactly," Gary mumbled. "People. Lots an' lots o' people. Make you go 'poof' even faster." He took a few more uneven steps. Almost there. Just a couple more yards, and he'd be safe. Safe.   
  
"I am in no mood for humor, Mr Hobson!" Sung cried angrily. He raised the pistol, leveling his sights on Gary's unprotected head.  
  
It all happened so fast. Did Gary stumble before the gun was fired? Or after? Was Sung's aim off? Or was Gary just incredibly lucky? Whichever, Sung fired just as the police van turned into the parking lot, it's headlights catching him in the act. At almost the same instant, Gary felt a blinding flash of pain in his head. Just as his knees lost their struggle to keep him erect, the pavement coming up in a rush. Too much. Way too much. Dimly, he heard familiar voices. They were talking to him, asking him things. Hear? Yeah, he could hear just fine. Talk, now. Whole 'nuther matter.   
  
"Tired," he mumbled. "Sleep now."  
  
*******************  
  
Gary felt...strange. Light, heavy, numb, sore. So sore. As he came closer to full consciousness, all the sensations began to sort themselves out. Head, arm, shoulder, ribs. Mostly head. Had he been drinking? He didn't usually drink that much, but this felt like he had really tied one on last night! He brought his right hand up and felt . . . cloth. Cloth? Bandages? Slowly, his memory crept back. Sung, the concert, the gun, Marissa. "Marissa?"  
  
"I'm here, Gary! I'm right here!" She found his hand, clutching it like a life line. "Thank God! Gary, we've been so worried! You've been unconscious for so long!"  
  
"Any . . ." He swallowed past the dryness in his mouth, vaguely recalling some comment he had made about kitty litter. "Any one else . . . hurt? You . . . 'kay?"  
  
Marissa's smile was like sunshine. "Yes! I'm fine, thanks to you. And no one else was hurt, either." She abruptly turned serious. "How could you do that, Gary? Put yourself in such danger for me?"  
  
"How . . . how can you . . . even . . . It was my fault!" he told her, bewildered. "And you're my friend! My best friend! Why wouldn't I help you?" God! His head hurt! "Um. How long . . .."  
  
"Two days."  
  
He slowly turned his head towards the new voice. Toni Brigatti and Paul Armstrong stood in the door way. "Wh-what?"  
  
"You've been in and out for the last two days," Brigatti elaborated. "Doc says the CT's and MRI's showed no serious brain damage. So you should be outta here in . . . oh . . . a week."  
  
"No," he protested. "Not that long. A day or two . . ."  
  
"One . . . week," Armstrong told him in a no nonsense tone. "I've got a set of handcuffs to chain you to that bed, if we have to."  
  
"You don't understand," he pleaded. "I have respons . . . responsibilities!" God! Even to himself, he sounded too weak to move! How would he ever convince them! "Marissa! Please . . .!"  
  
"What you have is a concussion, a broken arm, and two cracked ribs," Brigatti informed him. "Plus major blood loss. You are going nowhere!"  
  
"Peter and his father said they would take over your . . . responsibilities . . . whatever they are, until you're completely well," Armstrong assured him.   
  
"And that's final," Marissa told him. "I can handle the bar, so you have no excuses! You will rest, Gary Hobson! If we have to take turns sitting on your chest!"  
  
The gleam in Brigatti's eyes promised that he should probably take that literally, where she was concerned.  
  
"Um! You win," Gary sighed. "So, tell me what I missed."  
  
"Well," the tall detective shrugged, "we caught Sung on video, in the act of shooting you in the back. That was enough to bring him to trial. The others were all rounded up at the Center. Not much else to say there, except that we can convict him, now, of attempted murder even without your testimony."  
  
"But, you still need me to get him for murder one," Gary finished with a sigh.  
  
Paul shook his head. "Stone says they might be able to get that just from the wire," he said hopefully. "The States Attorney's Office really wants to rush this through. They hope to have all this over with before you're in any shape to testify."  
  
"Nice of her," Gary mumbled. He was starting to feel drowsy again.   
  
"She said she owed you that much."  
  
"Speaking of owing, Mr. and Mrs. Chandler send their regards," Brigatti shrugged. "They said they had to be in Knoxville for a few days, but they'd stop by to check on you before they return home. And that somebody named Lula(?) . . . had found someone you just had to meet. Whatever that means. Oh! He wants to talk to you about cutting a demo! He was listening when we played back the tape from your wire. Said to tell you . . . What did he say, Paul?"  
  
"That Hobson had a pretty good singing voice," the big detective smiled. "That. with just a little training, you could have a future in country music."  
  
Gary eyes widened in horror! Singing? He had been singing? Out loud? Oh, this just kept getting better!   
  
"He especially liked your rendition of 'Homeward Bound,'" Brigatti smiled. "Said it was almost as good as the original."  
  
Mortified, Gary groaned as he tried to bury his head under the sheets. Could it get any worse?  
  
"Excuse me," a strangely familiar voice drawled. "Is this Gary Hobson's room? An old friend asked me to look him up."  
  
There was a stunned silence. Then . . .   
  
"Oh . . . my . . . God!" exclaimed Brigatti. "You look just like . . . Oh, this is too much! Gary, you've got to see this guy!"  
  
Slowly, Gary lowered the covers until he could see the new arrival. At first, all he saw was the Stetson hat. Then the clothes. Checked flannel shirt and jeans. Very expensive snake skin boots. The height and build . . . the face . . . Ohmigod! That face!   
  
"You . . . you must be . . ." he stammered.   
  
"Yessir. My name's Buddy Jackson."  
  
*fin*  
  
Do you like?   
Polgana54@cs.com 


End file.
